


A Pound of Flesh

by MlleMusketeer



Series: The Quality of Mercy [3]
Category: Transformers: Prime
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, Diplomacy, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Medical Experimentation, Medical Horror, Plug and Play Sex, Slavery, Tactile
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-08-17
Updated: 2013-09-02
Packaged: 2017-12-23 04:47:48
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 14
Words: 26,852
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/922167
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MlleMusketeer/pseuds/MlleMusketeer
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Vehicons start disappearing, threatening to end any hope of peace before the Autobots and Decepticons can even begin negotiations. Optimus and Megatron try to uncover the truth behind the disappearances before the two factions are precipitated once again into devastating war, and find that the fate of all Cybertronians on Earth may rest squarely in the hands and scientific expertise of Raf, Ratchet, Starscream and Shockwave. </p><p>And far behind enemy lines, with little hope of rescue, one Vehicon fights to keep himself and his companions alive and sane in the face of an old enemy who somehow <i>isn't dead</i>.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue

The bot made it almost too easy. 

It was alone. First mistake. It wasn’t paying attention. Second mistake. And it wasn’t in alt mode. In fact, it was sitting on its tin ass scratching like a dog with mange. It was only when  he got closer to it that he heard its mumbled litany of curses about organic insects.

Safe in layers of metal, he grinned. Someone had a cockroach problem. 

He threw his new body out of its vehicular form and into its accustomed one, and the scratching Decepticon sat up straight, then scrambled to its feet. “Breakdown? I mean, sir? Is that really you?”

“Of course it is,” he said, disapproval and impatience, and the Decepticon made a static noise, like it was clearing its throat. 

“Sorry, sir,” it said. “We thought—that was, Dreadwing said… you were dead.”

“Reports of my death were greatly exaggerated,” he said, and took a step forward. The Decepticon stood its ground, the light behind its visor flickering to one side, then the other. It was already nervous. “Where’s the rest of your patrol?”

“Some klicks ahead,” said the Decepticon. “Crankshaft said to catch up when I’d gotten the bug problem sorted.” It cocked its head at him. “Sir, should I call for a groundbridge?”

He took another step toward it, so close he could touch it. “Why?”

Again that popping static noise. “Uh. Knockout would be...happy to see you, sir.”

He seized it by a shoulder, ignored its startled exclamation and threw it to the ground. It tried to rise but he was on top of it, trapping it with its belly in the dirt. A cable spiraled out from the housing on his wrist, the one the techs had assured him matched the small port on the back of the bots’ necks. A pity he couldn’t go for the main port in the chest, but it was too heavily armored and the bots too good at guarding it. Cultural significance, pain in the ass with aliens too. Go figure.

The cable socketed in. The robot screamed, terror and confusion that scaled up into pain. It twisted over onto its back, scrabbling at his chest with little clawed hands, screaming, begging. “No, Primus no not again please no please stop I’ll do anything, anything not again please, Breakdown please, no _stopstopstop_ —” It bashed its head back against the ground, but he kept the cable in the port by the simple expedient of clamping a hand over it. The babbling turned into a long shriek of agony, and then faded.

An alert flashed before his eyes. Code successfully downloaded. He withdrew the cable as the robot curled over itself and sobbed static, shaking, hand pressed over its neck port. Static resolved into words. “No. No. No,” over and over again. 

He struck the bot casually over the head to snap it out of it. The Decepticon went silent, staring up at him with a dimmed visor. 

“Now that we’ve gotten that done with,” he said, “Welcome to MECH, soldier.”


	2. Chapter 2

Late afternoon, the kids yet to arrive back from school, and all was well. Optimus was stuck with what the humans termed ‘paperwork’, a rather misleading term, as it involved very little actual paper. He had the main room of the base to himself; Ratchet was off in the medical bay, and the rest of the Autobots were picking the children up. 

The base comm system chirped, interrupting the quiet. _"Optimus_ ," said Megatron’s voice, irritated, _"Would you  explain to me why my Vehicons have been disappearing?"_

"No, Megatron, I cannot," said Optimus, hiding his alarm at the implications of the question. "I was unaware of this until now." 

_"Really?"_ Megatron gave him a suspicious look and then exvented heavily. _"Of course. That would have been too simple. I have lost seven Deceptions in the last week--five grounders, two flyers, and it is only_ now _my officers see fit to tell me this."_

"And you suspected the Autobots?" Optimus raised an optic ridge. It was hardly illogical. The current truce was uneasy at best, and should not have lasted this long in any case. The only thing holding it in place had been a handful of complicating factors. 

The brush of a field at his back indicated that one of those complicating factors was currently trying to eavesdrop while staying out of the comm visual pickup. He didn't turn around. Starscream was skittish now—alarming him was unpleasant for all involved, as Starscream's reaction to being startled was usually a salvo of shrieked curses. 

Megatron exvented again. _"Of course."_

"I assure you, it was not us." There was another long pause as they looked at each other. A small shuddering snarl from somewhere behind him, a click of pedes on concrete, and Starscream's field retreated as Starscream deemed the conversation uninteresting.

_“I would think that a meeting in person would be appropriate,”_ said Megatron after a time. 

“I would be inclined to agree. On neutral territory?”

_“Indeed. These coordinates, three hours from now.”_

“That is agreeable. I will speak with you there.”

Megatron nodded. The feed cut off, and from behind him, Starscream said, “So, his replacement for me is incompetent? _What_ a surprise.”

“I fear that the situation is far more dangerous than that, Starscream,” said Optimus. “That Cybertronians are vanishing for unknown reasons is bad enough; the instant, if logical, suspicion of Autobot involvement is far worse. Our peace is precarious enough; one incident will be enough to tip us back into war.”

“Of course,” said Starscream. “And it will be so easy to do, even with you and Megatron still on _such_ good terms. All you need is one idiot determined to avenge his vanished wingmate, and we’re back to business as usual. Regardless of what you and Lord Megatron are getting up to during those unusually long meetings of yours.” This last sentence was accompanied by what could only be described as a leer. 

Optimus, as usual, ignored it. “Indeed. And if these disappearances are indeed the work of an outside threat, then cooperation is of paramount importance.”

Starscream stalked forward, arms folded across his chest. “So you think it’s the humans again.”

“I am hesitant to come to such a conclusion without evidence,” said Optimus. 

“I’ll take that as a yes,” said Starscream. “Human government or MECH again?” His tone was deliberately even, but his field flared briefly at the mention of MECH, hate and fear, quickly repressed.

“We have no way of knowing,” said Optimus, hiding his own unease. “Not until after I speak with Megatron, at least.”

“Hm,” said Starscream, and turned away. “Tell me when the humans return. Until then, I have work to do.” 

Optimus watched him go, concerned. He might insist that he was perfectly well, refuse all aid, but Starscream was far from recovery. A forcedness to his usual acidic wit, the way he’d taken to keeping his arms folded over his chest, the skittishness, the absolute refusal to tolerate Megatron’s presence. Optimus did worry about him, but there was nothing he could do if Starscream did not want his help. The same applied to Ratchet, and Optimus gathered that Ratchet was just as concerned as he was. Ratchet was a healer, and all he could do at the moment for Starscream was make sure the Seeker didn’t get bored. 

He went back to his work, interrupted by the clatter of the kids arriving. Raf said something to Bumblebee and headed straight for the medbay, while Jack and Miko picked up where they’d left off in an argument—as far as he could tell, a rather absurd one.

“You shouldn’t have told her, Miko!”

“Well maybe the rest of us were tired of _waiting_ for you to get up the guts to _ask_ her!”

“Maybe I wanted to do it myself!”

“Whatever! She likes you too, what’s the big deal?”

Optimus resisted the urge to ex-vent heavily, and sent a private comm to Megatron. _If you are available to meet earlier, I am as well._

The response was deeply amused. _Did your human friends arrive back too early?_

_The prevailing atmosphere is not entirely conducive to work,_ he responded. 

_Of course. I shall see you at the coordinates as soon as is possible._

 

 

_——_

“I suppose I ought to treat your assurances with more suspicion, Optimus,” said Megatron, as Optimus exited the groundbridge and transformed. “But there are far more plausible explanations. For one thing, I doubt there is a location in your base in which you could hide seven Decepticons.”

“You are correct,” said Optimus. “I think it far more likely that it is human involvement. Either MECH or a government.”

“And we have no proof for either,” said Megatron.

“Correct. The situation is indeed exceedingly volatile.”

“Indeed.” 

They stood together for a while, until Optimus said, “I hope that it is not a human government, but there is altogether too great of a chance that one of MECH’s members bargained information in return for safety.”

“Agent Fowler’s government is the most likely, is it not? Our conversation with his superior officer was indeed enlightening.”

Optimus tried to repress the flare of discomfort in his field at the memory. “It was. It is clear that Agent Fowler’s superiors have little trust of either of us.”

“Indeed. And what should we do then, if your humans turn on you?”

“Cooperation will be essential in that case,” said Optimus. “The only course of action that I could condone would be leaving the planet.”

Megatron gave him a long, displeased look. “And what happens when the humans develop spacetravel? Or get their hands on spacebridge technology? The next enemies we fight may not be each other but your human pets.” 

“To take such an action now, against such a young species—”

“You are too young to remember the Quintessons,” said Megatron, and moved closer to him. “And so you make the error of thinking us more powerful than we are. With the right tools, even your precious weak humans could bring us to our knees once again. We must not allow that to happen.”

Optimus looked away. “The involvement of human governments is still only a possibility,” he said. 

“Then you suspect MECH has returned?”

“We have no evidence from which to draw a conclusion,” said Optimus. “In the meantime, we should solidify our truce so that no accidental exchange of fire will lead back into war.”

“You mean begin negotiations?” Megatron moved closer yet, field radiating intent. “But, Prime, you have no Lord High Protector, and no authority to negotiate a military settlement.”

Optimus’s spark sank. “Are you truly going to insist on that particular section of protocol, Megatron?”

“We want the peace to be secure, do we not?” said Megatron, with an expression of patent innocence. 

“The legal precedence for that has no root in tradition—”

“But there _is_ legal precedence,” said Megatron. “Quite a lot of it. The Thirteen didn’t spend much time consolidating their role in courts, and tradition has little legal bearing on the matter.”

Optimus glared at him. “What is the point of this, Megatron?”

“You could appoint one of your Autobots to the position,” said Megatron. “Ratchet, perhaps, or Ultra Magnus, if you could contact him. Though I have the distinct impression that the...other implications of the Lord High Protector’s position would be inconvenient, whether or not you chose to fulfill them. Celibate Primes and Protectors _have_ existed, after all.” He grinned. “Or, we might follow the precedent of Zeta Prime.”

There was a pause as Optimus examined his memory banks for context. “He was permitted to negotiate the military settlement himself on condition that he appointed a Lord High Protector from the rebellion’s ranks afterward.” He looked back to Megatron, who was evidently _very_ pleased with himself. 

“Think about it, Optimus,” said Megatron. “No Pit-slagged politician could overturn that peace on a technicality. Both Decepticons and Autobots would feel fairly represented, and neither of us would appear to be bowing to the other. An equal peace. And,” and the grin turned suggestive, “unless I am very, very much mistaken, neither of us would find the implications inconvenient.”

He was not mistaken at all, but it didn’t stop Optimus from regarding him with severe disapproval. “And you would have me leave all military power in your hands?”

Megatron made a dismissive gesture. “That could be open to negotiation.”

It sounded like a decent proposition, which made him all the more wary. “I will give it consideration,” he said. “In the meantime, I would like to propose another gesture of goodwill.”

“Oh?”

“Ratchet has been working on a cure for Starscream’s condition. If Knockout’s services could be spared, perhaps we might encourage them to cooperate on the project.”

It was Megatron’s turn to regard him suspiciously. “And how well do you imagine putting our medics in close proximity is going to end?”

“I am sure that Ratchet will comport himself with the utmost discretion should the situation require it,” he said, and added, mentally, _More so than anyone else, at the least_. “We will all have to learn how to cooperate again, our medics included. He and Starscream have already done well.”

“And how does Starscream fare?” There was a hesitation before Starscream’s name. 

“Ratchet has given him a project to occupy him, and he is somewhat less skittish. He and the children seem to be friendly enough.”

“Of course they are. Starscream’s always been remarkably juvenile.” Megatron cocked his head to one side. “What is it?” he said, evidently receiving a comm message. His optic ridges rose. “I shall be there immediately.”

Optimus was more polite than to ask exactly what had occasioned such a reaction, but Megatron saw the question on his face and said, “Ratchet may have just acquired another assistant. I will contact you when I learn more.”

“Thank you,” Optimus said, and Megatron put a hand on his shoulder. 

“Do not be incautious with the humans, Prime,” he said, and under the assured command there was a current of concern. Optimus almost reached to reciprocate, but Megatron turned away and transformed, racing up into the clear afternoon sky.

 

 

——

The Vehicon named Tailspin huddled himself into a corner of the hangar, rested his helm on his knees, and hoped like Pit that no one would notice him. He was horrified. And frightened, but mostly horrified that humans, _humans_ , could do this to him again. 

Then Breakdown— or Silas, as the thing controlling what was left of Breakdown called itself—came to see him and it was all Tailspin could do not to cower away from him, expecting blows or worse. 

“I need a lieutenant on the battlefield,” Silas said instead.

He was shocked. And then sickened, because it meant he would have to order others to cooperate with Silas. But he had no choice and when the other Vehicons began filtering in, some with far worse damage than he—the ones coded at the base most so—he managed as best he could. 

_Firstly, do not get killed,_ he sent over private comm channels, which provoked quiet laughter with an edge of hysteria. _No, I’m serious. You get hit, you go down and you_ stay _down, do you understand me? We don’t have a medic._

_We’re going to get out of this,_ he sent later that night as they huddled together in the hangar, none recharging. _Lord Megatron will have been informed. He_ will _come for us._

_Since when has Lord Megatron cared about what happens to_ us? sent someone, misery lacing the message. 

_He even came after Prime when the humans got him_ , he sent. _He hates slave coding. He will come._


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> To avoid confusion between interfacing equipment (cables) and the Cybertronian equivalent of tendons (also cables), I've started using the term 'stays' to refer to the latter. Yeah, I spend too much time drooling over sailing ships...

Megatron arrived at the Autobot base the next afternoon to a glare from the Autobot medic and an assurance that Optimus would be back soon. 

In the meantime, he stared in confusion at the monitor the human pests were watching. It was some sort of entertainment, obviously--even Miko was silent and still, staring at the screen, but what appeal it had was lost in translation. As far as he could tell there was something claiming to be an alien (that looked perfectly human) which had appointed itself Earth’s guardian (he wondered briefly how much time Optimus spent watching this—he had to have gotten that absurd idea _somewhere_ ) and was attempting to face an armada of assorted spaceships. None of them were recognizable. 

_“Do the smart thing,”_ the supposed-to-be-alien was declaiming. _“Let somebody else try first.”_

An admirable sentiment, Megatron couldn’t help but admit, but impractical strategically. And why were humans so convinced that the universe rotated around them?

“I apologize for the delay.” Megatron turned to look at Optimus, who had just entered with a datapad in one hand and a suspicious Ratchet behind him. “I have, however, located another legal record which may be of interest to you.” He handed the datapad over. “You say that you had something to speak to me about?”

Megatron looked down at the datapad in his hands and ex-vented. It was the one record he’d hoped Optimus wouldn’t get his hands on. “I do,” he said. “Shockwave has returned to me. Evidently, he did not perish in the explosion of his lab on Cybertron, as Starscream led me to believe.”

There was what might have been an alarmed gasp from behind the door, and rapidly retreating pedesteps. 

“It will, however, work in Starscream’s favor,” he said. “Shockwave has indicated he would be interested in collaborating with your medic,” he nodded at Ratchet, “on the matter of the slave coding.”

The deeply uncertain look that crossed Ratchet’s face was very amusing, but the medic squared his shoulders and said (not particularly eagerly), “Collaboration on this project would be welcome.”

“Excellent,” said Megatron, and turned to Optimus. “I believe there are further particulars of the negotiations we need to settle.” He glanced at the datapad in his hand. “Privately.”

Optimus nodded. “Understood. This way, if you would.”

As they made their way down the hallway, Megatron heard Starscream’s voice raised in querulous demand. “What did I miss?”

And then, a few seconds later, “ _What? No!_ She _can’t_ die, she’s a main character!”

“Starscream seems to have acquired a taste for human culture,” Megatron remarked. 

“It was Rafael’s idea,” said Optimus. “It seems to keep him occupied remarkably well.”

“ _They can’t end it THERE!”_ echoed back from the main room, and Megatron raised an optic ridge. 

“Apparently,” he said. 

——

They talked well into the planet’s night, only pausing to obtain cubes of energon, and then talked as they fueled. They discussed what parties would need to be present, which officers from each faction would need to appear, and how to effectively announce the ceasefire, communications being less than reliable. 

“This will entail a significant delay,” said Megatron, glaring at a datapad on which Optimus had worked out the time it would take to effectively communicate throughout all known combat zones. 

“Our ‘great war’ ceased being a war a long time ago,” said Optimus, “and became a very widespread energon feud.”

Megatron snorted. “Perhaps because we didn’t have the numbers to properly conduct a war?”

“The unreliability of long-range communications, the lack of reliable spacebridges, and the nature of the exodus from Cybertron have all contributed to that,” said Optimus. “If we do broker a treaty here on Earth, we will need to be very cautious in following protocol, so that it cannot be contested. Doubtless there are many parties who will not welcome the end of the war.”

“And both of our factions will be concerned that one or the other of us have compromised their interests in our pursuit of a settlement,” said Megatron, “thus opening the way for any ambitious mech to attempt a coup and a revitalization of the war.”

Optimus ex-vented and sat down on the berth next to Megatron. “And that, we cannot afford.”

“Well,” said Megatron, and grinned at him, “you did list the difficulty of this project among its appealing features.”

“I did,” said Optimus. “Among others. About this question of the Lord High Protector—”

“Which, I see, you have found may not be necessary,” said Megatron, rather wryly. 

“Indeed. But your earlier suggestion may be the most viable option. As you mentioned, parties from both factions will be concerned about their interests being compromised. As the positions of Prime and Protector are equal, this may allay some of the suspicions—as long as we can have a more equal distribution of military power, at least initially.”

Megatron moved closer to Optimus in order to get a good look at the datapad, putting an arm around him. “Is that your proposed distribution?”

“It is.”

“It seems reasonable enough.” He began stroking Optimus’s dorsal plating, and Optimus made a little ex-vent of pleasure and leaned into his touch. 

“You have a kinked stay back here,” he said after a while, tweaking it. Optimus made a sound of surprise, and then pressed back against him. Megatron worked his way up his back, loosening tense stays, and rested his chin on Optimus’s shoulder and peered down at the datapad. 

“You are being distracting, Megatron.”

“Given the state of your dorsal stays, that is hardly a bad thing.” Megatron tilted his helm and nibbled one of Optimus’s neck stays. Optimus started, then put the datapad down and turned to him. 

“If you continue with this behavior, Megatron, we will get no further in our endeavor.”

“You did note that peace will be a lengthly process,” said Megatron. “We may as well invest some time in an exercise of goodwill.”

Optimus gave him a long, unreadable look, and then placed a hand on Megatron’s waist, fingers seeking transformation seams. Megatron ventilated sharply, pressing back into the touch. 

Optimus smiled very slightly and moved forward, straddling him. Megatron reached up to stroke the pointed tips of Optimus’s audials, and Optimus hummed, optics offlining, hands coming to rest on Megatron’s waist. 

“This is as it should be,” Megatron said, and canted his helm down to return his attentions to Optimus’s neck. “You and I.” He pulled Optimus closer, their interface panels touching. “Bending the universe to our will. _Together._ ”

Optimus huffed, amusement or disapproval, he could not tell which. “Remaking our world, rather,” he said, far too drily for Megatron’s taste, then keened as Megatron’s glossa pressed around and under a stay. When he spoke again, it was mostly static. “Remedying our errors.”

Megatron stroked his dorsal plating. “Not ours alone, Optimus,” he said. Optimus reached up to touch the cheek guards of his helm, interface panel clicking open.

“Regardless,” he cut off in a burst of static, as Megatron’s cable nudged into his port, “regardless, we shall remedy them.”

——

It was disturbing how fast Tailspin fell back into his old habits of thinking, of tucking his field in tight and unreadable, monitoring every movement he made so nothing would give away what he was thinking to his captors. How easy it was to misinterpret orders even slightly, just enough to yield unsatisfactory results, but not enough to be directly traced back to him. Ways of phrasing things to give the minimum of information. 

The others picked it up from him. 

Surely Silas knew what they were up to but he never had enough evidence to punish them for it. He heard muttering among the human soldiers, resentment and distrust. He tried to ignore it. 

The trickle of new mechs slowed, stopped. From eavesdropping on the humans, they discovered that the other Decepticons had taken to staying in groups, large groups, and being very careful about patrols. Silas’s bad temper became worse. Tailspin found himself being even more careful around him than he had before. 

“Keep up this rank stupidity,” Silas snapped at him at one point, when he’d tried sending them to tail a squadron of Vehicons, who subsequently escaped, “and I’ll conclude that all you’re good for is parts.”

Tailspin inclined his helm. “It won’t happen again, sir,” he said. 

Silas gave him a very long, evaluating look and he huddled himself small. “Really sir,” he said. “We’ll be much more careful next time.”

“See that you are,” said Silas, and turned away. 

Tailspin, knowing himself to be dismissed, went back to their hangar and to spend time with Lightwing.

Lightwing was a flyer, elegant and graceful both on the ground and in the air, and had taken the coding far harder than anyone else. He’d never had anything similar happen to him, and while the other captured flyer, Contrail, was of a stoic disposition, Lightwing...wasn’t. 

It wasn’t as if he threw any Starscream-style fits over it. He just went very quiet and curled into himself, and it was some time before Tailspin realized the flyer was in trouble. 

He started spending time with Lightwing, just sitting close to him with their fields overlapping. Lightwing tried to remain dignified for a while, but gave up soon enough and leaned against him, a fine, constant tremor running through his frame. Tailspin pressed close to him, comforted him as best he could. The way Lightwing would try to hide his distress behind an imitation of the mech he had been made Tailspin’s spark ache. 

But Lightwing persisted, putting on a cheerful facade for the benefit of his comrades, only collapsing against Tailspin at night and trembling, and Tailspin found himself admiring the flyer, treasuring the rare flashes of genuine happiness that broke through his distress.

Lightwing wasn’t the only one who was having trouble, but the others managed well enough, huddling together, some pairing off.  Tailspin warned them strictly to keep any interfacing out of sight and sound of the humans, and was pleased to find that they succeeded. He didn’t like to think what Silas would do with _that_ information. 

Lightwing recovered. Slowly. Agonizingly slowly. It was a long time before he stopped shaking, even longer before he began again to recharge near the others, but it was recovery, and Tailspin found a joy in watching him, in helping him, as if Lightwing’s recovery was also, somehow, his own. 

“Do you think they’ve noticed?” Lightwing asked him one night, while the humans recharged, the base deserted save for a handful of guards. “That we’ve disappeared?”

“They must have,” said Tailspin. “They will come.”

Lightwing made a sound that was as close to a laugh as he ever got. “You have a lot of faith in the officers,” he said. 

“Lord Megatron will not tolerate humans using slave coding,” he said, and shifted so that Lightwing could lean against him more comfortably. “He even rescued Prime.”

Another almost-laugh. “Everyone knows they were ‘facing before the war, Tailspin. It’s hardly that much of a stretch.”

“There was the Wrecker, too. And Commander Starscream.”

“Yeah, I remember that,” said Lightwing, sounding half in recharge already. “I thought it was more about destroying the base rather than saving anyone.”

Tailspin shrugged. “The boss-bots don’t want slave coding in the hands of the humans. It works out the same way for us, regardless of intention.”

“I suppose,” said Lightwing, his visor dimming as recharge overtook him. “I’m powering down for a bit. Wake me if anything interesting happens.”

“I will,” said Tailspin. 

It was some time later that Contrail wandered over, and settled down next to them. _He recharging_? he sent over comms, and Tailspin sent him an affirmative. 

_Good. Soft-sparked glitch had me worried. I think the humans are planning something._

_When are they not?_ There was a wry quality to the transmission. 

Contrail snorted. _Good point. I think it’s big._

_How big?_

_Silas mentioned the possibility of some of us getting snuffed, said it would be a small loss. That big._

_Scrap._

They looked at Lightwing’s somnolent form. Tailspin pulled him a little closer. 

_Just what he needs now_ , he sent. 

_Yeah, same goes for the rest of us. You’ve done all you can for him. Don’t spin your wheels over it._

They sat together not talking for a long while. 

_You should recharge too,_ said Contrail. _We’re supposed to attack something or other in the morning._

_Human military facility,_ said Tailspin, and ex-vented. At least whatever Silas was planning would take a while to be realized. 


	4. Chapter 4

_Optimus, Agent Fowler wants to speak with you._

Optimus onlined his optics and lifted his helm from the gently rumbling expanse of Megatron’s chest. _How urgent?_

_Very._ Ratchet’s voice was wry. _He’s on his way now. His superior’s with him._

Optimus pushed himself upright and started to carefully disentangle himself from Megatron. _I will be there as soon as I can_ , he said. 

_They’re fifteen human minutes out_ , said Ratchet. 

_Make sure Starscream stays out of sight. Explaining his presence to General Bryce would be less than ideal._ Optimus extracted himself from the berth and made for the washracks. _The children—_

_Already taken care of. I contacted June._

_Good. Thank you, Ratchet._ He looked down at himself, scrubbed at the smudge of purple that ran from his knee to just under his left pelvic flare. The two new scratches along one shoulder would have to wait until he had more time, but fortunately they were small, and it was unlikely the humans would notice. 

Some time later, he emerged from the washracks, rather more presentable. Ratchet gave him a deeply suspicious look as he came into the main room, and said, “Is Megatron still here?” 

“He is,” said Optimus. “He is still in recharge, however.”

“We may need him,” said Ratchet, rather grimly. “Agent Fowler wouldn’t say what had happened. Given General Bryce’s involvement...”

“It stands to reason that whatever prompted this sudden meeting is of immediate concern to his government, and that the precipitating incident has already been resolved without our involvement.” Optimus folded his arms and frowned at the screen. “Given our previous encounter with General Bryce,” and he tried to ignore the way Ratchet’s field shifted abruptly concerned, “I have my suspicions as to the subject matter of this meeting.”

“As do I,” said Ratchet, and the proximity alert went off. Optimus deliberately lowered his arms and took a step forward, optics on the elevator. 

Agent Fowler was angry, angrier than Optimus had ever seen him, and confused. Optimus’s inexperience in interpreting human emotions rendered General Bryce unreadable. 

“Did you know about this?” demanded Fowler. 

“About what, Agent Fowler?” Optimus inclined his head to General Bryce in greeting.

“This,” said Agent Fowler, doing something at the small human computer, as General Bryce stood there with his arms folded. Something in the pose reminded Optimus unpleasantly of Silas, and he focused on what Agent Fowler was doing instead. 

A video came up on the main screen, evidently from a security camera above a large human military installation. There was no sound, but two dots in the upper right hand screen quickly resolved into the distinctive shape of Decepticon flyers. The picture flared into white, then static.

“That was the main camera,” said Fowler, and pressed a key. “This is the gate camera.”

The picture this time showed a gate being destroyed by a Vehicon, swiftly followed by four others.

“This base is now destroyed,” said Agent Fowler, as another recording started, Vehicons destroying a warehouse. “The survivors tell us that their communications were blocked. The bots came in, destroyed everything they could, and made off with several tons of high grade explosives, along with the schematics for a highly sensitive project.”

Optimus found that he’d been standing with his arms folded and lowered them. 

“So, Optimus, since you and Megatron have been so cozy recently, mind telling me the meaning of this?”

Optimus paused before answering Fowler, optics on the screen. “I was aware of no order of such an attack. When did this occur?”

“At two hundred hours this morning,” said Fowler. 

Optimus nodded. “I see. I do not think that Megatron ordered this attack.”

“Aren’t those his goons?” snapped Fowler, gesturing to the screen. 

Optimus looked at him a moment, then commed Megatron. 

His response was nonverbal and deeply resentful. 

_Megatron, an emergency has occurred. The humans report an attack by Decepticons on a military base. I believe it is the missing Vehicons; should I say as much?_

_Unicron’s bearings, Prime, you don’t need my approval for that,_ said Megatron. Then, rather wryly, _No matter. I will be there soon._

Taking that as agreement, Optimus turned back to the humans. “In the last few weeks, the Decepticons have noted disappearances from their ranks. The last reported number was seven: two flyers, five Vehicons. We suspected human involvement, and Megatron and I have been coordinating to resolve the matter.”

“Without informing us?” said General Bryce and took a step forward. 

“With all respect, General Bryce, we were concerned that your government might have been involved in the kidnappings,” said Optimus. “We were understandably reluctant to share this information until we understood the situation better.”

“Are you telling me, soldier, that you withheld valuable information from the United States government?” demanded General Bryce, and Optimus only just managed to hide his flinch at ‘soldier’, a great wave of disgust rising in him.

“Technically,” said Megatron’s voice from the doorway, “The rank that Optimus Prime holds is not ‘soldier’, but rather Supreme Commander of the Autobot Forces, and he is also—should our current treaty hold—the head of Cybertron’s civilian government. It is not more appropriate to address him as ‘soldier’ than it would be to address your President by the same title.”

Optimus controlled himself, kept the relief out of his field. Irritation flickered across General Bryce’s face. 

“Yes,” he said, “we did withhold information from your government, General Bryce, as is our right as a sovereign power.”

“You work in cooperation with the United States government,” snapped General Bryce. “You are on US soil, and utilizing government facilities, and the terms of our agreement—”

“Recognize Cybertron, and therefore the Autobots, as a sovereign state; this base is, in point of technical fact, an embassy and therefore Cybertronian soil,” said Optimus. “I made no agreement to blind cooperation with your government, only military assistance in the event of Decepticon aggression. Now, if we may return to the issue at hand?”

General Bryce glowered. Fowler still looked suspicious, but also relieved. 

Megatron paced forward, hit the key to replay the footage, and Ratchet made a small startled sound. Optimus looked, too, and then stepped sideways to shield the view of Megatron’s back, and the long red smudge of paint on it, from the humans. Megatron watched the screen in silence, and when the recording started again, said, “Yes, those are the missing Decepticons. The numbers are correct.”

“The location indicates that the group responsible must be domestic,” said Ratchet.

“MECH,” said Optimus.

“Of course,” said Agent Fowler. “We never did catch all of them.”

Somewhere in the hallway, there was a snarl of rage. Both Agent Fowler and General Bryce’s heads jerked toward the noise. 

“What was that?”

There was a distinct pause. Then Starscream darted across the doorway leading into the room, vanishing as quickly as he’d appeared. Ratchet looked as if he wanted to perform the human gesture that Miko referred to as a ‘facepalm’. Optimus could not say that he was unsympathetic to the sentiment.

General Bryce had no idea who he was looking at. Agent Fowler did, and his hands clenched. 

“Prime, what is he doing here?”

“Starscream is acting as a consultant,” said Ratchet. “He is unaffiliated with either faction, and has proven most useful in several current and important projects.”

“As MECH is not, in fact, eliminated, the terms of our prior agreement stand,” said Optimus, before anyone else could break in and make some diplomatically unfortunate comment. “This is a Cybertronian affair, General Bryce, and we shall resolve it without your government’s involvement. Agent Fowler may, as previously agreed, remain in an observational capacity.”

General Bryce gave him a very suspicious look. “Very well, Prime,” he said. “We _will_ be watching.”

Optimus nodded. “We would expect no less.”

——

Silas was pleased with them. 

Tailspin was also pleased, but for throughly different reasons. Not one serious wound—all were scrapes and minor friction burns from human bullets. All of them were alive, and their human captors were pleased enough to fuel them. That in itself was enough of a victory for the moment. 

And Lightwing seemed surprisingly cheerful. 

“Don’t take it too seriously,” said Contrail, when Tailspin asked. They watched Lightwing talking to the other Vehicons—telling a dirty joke, by the look of it. “Fighting’s always cheered the little glitch up.” He raised the container of energon to his intake. Not anything like a proper energon cube, but a barrel; they gave the energon an unfortunate flavor, but it was fuel. Tailspin wasn’t inclined to complain.

“You bonded?” said Contrail, lowering the barrel.

“What?” Tailspin stared at him. “No. No. I’m not. Why?”

“Good,” said Contrail.

“Why?” said Tailspin.

“You should go pay more attention to Lightwing,” said Contrail.

“You should answer my question,” said Tailspin, trying to imitate Lord Megatron’s air of authority. Contrail took no notice of it, hiding behind his energon again. “Contrail…”

“Don’t pull rank on me, bitlet,” said Contrail. “This is your wise elder advisor speaking; go pay attention to Lightwing.”

“Since when—” Tailspin cut himself off, shook his helm, and downed the rest of the energon.  “Fine.”

Lightwing met him halfway, having discarded the empty energon container, and tapped his arm gently. _I’d like to talk in private_ , he sent over comms. Tailspin, puzzled but beginning to have an inkling of an idea of what was going on, nodded and followed him around the building and out of sight. 

Lightwing looked around for humans, saw none, and pressed two claws in between the plates on Tailspin’s arm, leaving no doubts as to his intent. 

“I know we might not get out of here,” he said, very low. “I just...if we’re going to be scrap in the next few rotations, like Contrail’s worried we will, I just want you to know—”

Tailspin, surprised, said, “In so short a time?” and then realized it was probably the stupidest thing he could have possibly voiced. 

Lightwing nodded vehemently. “You were there,” he said. “You’re the best mech I’ve ever met.”

Tailspin, unfamiliar emotion rising in his spark, took Lightwing’s free hand and simply held it. 

“You’ve been keeping all of us together, this whole time,” said Lightwing. “All of us. You’ve kept me sane. Gearshift would have terminated himself if it weren’t for you. If there’s someone going to get us out of this, it’s you. And this whole time, you’ve not taken a moment to yourself, never talked to any of us and I cannot believe that you are unaffected—don’t try and tell me otherwise, you spend too much time being quiet.”

“Lightwing…” started Tailspin, not sure how to respond, not sure how he was supposed to respond. The brush of Lightwing’s field was a comfort, the proximity making pleasant parts of his processor light up, elation that Lightwing, graceful, elegant Lightwing, could feel so about him. The praise was shocking. 

“Whether or not we get out of this, I wanted you to know,” said Lightwing. “Whether or not you’re even interested in flyers. I just…”

Tailspin put a hand on Lightwing’s shoulder and pressed his helm to the flyer’s. Lightwing said, “Oh,” very quietly.

“If you want me, I am yours,” said Tailspin, equally quietly. “With all of my spark.”

“With all of my spark,” said Lightwing, and dimmed his visor, caught Tailspin by the hand. “If you want… over here. We’ll have more privacy.”

The familiar qualm rose, but Tailspin repressed it, looking at the grace of Lightwing’s frame, feeling the protective fondness rise again. He followed.

They settled behind a shipping crate, facing each other, legs awkwardly intertwined. 

Tailspin reached out for a wing, stroked its length gently. “I...I should warn you,” he said. “I’ve never actually interfaced. With anyone.”

“What, a big handsome mech like you?”said Lightwing, and stroked a hand over his panel. “You shock me.”

Tailspin drew in a shuddering ventilation. “Sharing code with someone frightens me,” he said flatly. “It seems too much like the first time for comfort.”

“It’s nothing like slave coding,” said Lightwing fiercely, and dropped his hands to Tailspin’s waist, arranging himself in Tailspin’s lap. “Nothing.”

Tailspin’s spark beat wildly in his chest and he had to reset his vocalizer before it would let him say, “Show me. Please.”

Lightwing pressed a hand to his panel, small claws scratching around the edges, and a jolt of warmth went through Tailspin. He ventilated hard. 

“Open for me?” whispered Lightwing. “Please?”

Tailspin fumbled for the command, and clutched at Lightwing as the cool air hit his array. 

“You really weren’t joking,” said Lightwing, wondering, and then, “May I?”

“Please?” said Tailspin, his voice very small, and fingers touched him, stroked gently over gleaming metal, dipped into his port and brushed sensors. He stifled a cry, his fans coming to life. 

“You’re so sensitive,” whispered Lightwing, like a benediction, and probed deeper. 

It felt good, but not quite right, not quite enough. Tailspin tried to arch into it but was halted with a hand on his shoulder. “Not yet,” said Lightwing, gently.

Tailspin nodded. Lightwing changed his attentions to his cable, drew out the gleaming nub and stroked it. Tailspin bit back static. The finger returned to his port, coaxing. 

“We won’t connect if you don’t want to,” said Lightwing, but Tailspin shook his helm. 

“Do it,” he said, husking static. “Please.”

Lightwing looked up at him,  fingers working gently around his cable. 

“Please,” said Tailspin again, mostly static now, and Lightwing took the cable and pushed it into himself.

Charge arced into him, overwhelming the sensations of tiny plates clamping and flexing around his cap, and Tailspin let out a binary whine, pushing deeper into Lightwing. 

Another wave of sensation swept over him, something pushing into his own port, and Lightwing was with him, in his processor, a loving touch nothing like the alien invasion of the slave coding, comfort and it felt right, right, right—

His frame crackled, hummed, every sensor humming with ghosts of pleasure, his spark whirling with joy and delight and yes, love, _slag_ all the derision the others spoke of love with—

Too much, too much. His processor whited out, and Lightwing’s ecstasy followed him into a comforting darkness.

——

Tailspin came online with a great sense of satisfaction, his helm pressed against Lightwing’s. Lightwing coughed static as he rebooted. 

“Wow,” he said. “That was...wow.” His fingers stroked over one of Tailspin’s wheels. 

Tailspin had to reboot his vocalizer twice before he could speak. “Thank you,” he whispered, and they stayed like that, legs tangled, helms pressed together, as long as they dared.


	5. Chapter 5

General Bryce steepled his fingers and glared at a point some inches above Agent Fowler’s head. 

“They’re up to something,” he said. 

Agent Fowler shifted in the uncomfortable chair and said, “Well, yes, they’re planning something. Seven of their people have just vanished.”

“Did you actually believe a word of that, Agent Fowler?” General Bryce turned the glare on him. 

“All of it,” said Fowler. “I may not trust Megatron, but Prime’s not got a bad bolt in his body.”

“But Optimus Prime has defected before,” said General Bryce. 

“He had amnesia. I believe I stated that for the record, sir.”

“You did.” General Bryce resumed scrutinizing the wall. “You also mentioned that this “Commander” Starscream was a nasty piece of work.”

“He is,” said Fowler, “and believe me, I will be asking Prime about exactly what he’s doing on the base.”

“And Prime seems to be spending a great deal of time with Megatron, who has repeatedly demonstrated his hostility to Earth and everything living on it.”

“They are trying to negotiate a treaty, sir,” said Fowler. 

“Are they?” said Bryce. “Because I’m suspicious the ‘negotiations’ aren’t all that professional.”

So he’d seen the red smudge on Megatron’s back, too. Fowler, who hadn’t been happy to see it himself, and was damn suspicious about its origins, had hoped Bryce had missed it. 

“How do we know that they aren’t planning an invasion?”

“I don’t think Optimus Prime has it in him,” Fowler said. “Really, sir, he’s put his life  on the line more times than I can count for the sake of our planet. When he says that an Autobot-Decepticon treaty will be in the best interests of our world and his, I believe him. I can’t do much better than that for you, sir.”

Bryce nodded. “Your opinion is, as always, noted,” he said. “However, I want you to keep an eye on them. Alert me the _moment_ that any hostile action is made against _any_ human installation.”

“Even if it’s MECH?”

“Even if it’s MECH. It might be us next.”

“But sir—”

“You have your orders, Agent Fowler.”

 

——

“This slag is boring,” said Wheeljack.

“Would you rather be shot at?” retorted Arcee, rounding a corner.

“Not particularly. I’m just noting that _nothing_ interesting has happened since Prime and Buckethead have started playing nice. I haven’t gotten a decent fight since we took down MECH. Not even sparring with Bulkhead.”

“Hey! I heard that!”

“Sorry Bulkhead. It just ain’t the same.”

Arcee huffed a very annoyed ex-vent. “Just mute it and patrol, Wheeljack.”

“Only trying to make conversation.”

Which was when the transmission came in. 

Broad-band, possible for both Autobots and Decepticons to pick up, and with a origin tag identifying it as from a location a scant two klicks distant, and the transmitter’s voice was shrill with fear, definitely a Decepticon. 

_“We’re under attack! Humans, two flyers, five grounders—anyone, please—!”_

The transmission cut off. Arcee skidded to a halt and looked at Bulkhead. 

“Well?”

It was Wheeljack who broke the silence with a hum of battle protocols onlining.

“Jackie?” said Bulkhead, puzzled. 

“Yeah, the cons are bad,” said Wheeljack, and made a u-turn, heading for the transmission’s origin. “But the humans are worse. Trust me on this.”

Arcee almost didn’t go. Almost. But Bulkhead had already started off after Wheeljack, so she set a ping to Ratchet and followed. 

——

The Vehicons had formed a circle, and it was doing them little good. There were five of them, greatly outnumbered by their attackers. Two flyers, just as they’d said, a number of humans, and five other Vehicons. 

Bulkhead went straight for the Vehicons. Arcee focused on taking down the flyers, tried to comm base again and got static. “Scrap!”

Wheeljack waded into the middle of things. The attacking Vehicons scattered, and those Wheeljack hit went down and stayed down.

A flyer came in at Wheeljack, and Arcee fired, striking it in the wing. It shrieked. The second flyer looped around immediately and caught it as it fell. 

Breakdown called a retreat. The attacking Vehicons picked themselves up and fled, the flyer with its injured burden laboring along behind them. 

“Should we follow?” said Bulkhead. 

“No,” said Wheeljack. “We need the Doc first.” He looked over the Vehicons; three were badly injured. “Come on. Help me move them.”

 

——

The first Ratchet knew of something going wrong was Arcee’s ping. He tried to contact her again, Wheeljack, Bulkhead, any of them, but it met only static. 

Then came the next contact. “Hey Doc, we need a groundbridge. Quick. Picked up a couple Decepticons and they’re not in good shape. Megatron there?”

“He’s consulting with Optimus. Starscream, groundbridge, now.”

“Why me?”

“Because there are wounded. Move!”

Starscream made a resentful noise, but went to the bridge controls anyway. Ratchet addressed himself to preparing the medbay for multiple casualties, comming Optimus as he did. _The patrol ran into some altercation between Vehicons. We have multiple wounded coming in. You have basic medical training; get in here._

_On my way,_ said Optimus. 

“Starscream!”

“What is it?” snapped Starscream, activating the bridge. 

“Have you basic medical training?”

Starscream bristled. “Do I look like a medic to you?”

“At least you can hold things,” said Ratchet, and stuffed a patch kit into his hands, making for the bridge. 

Bulkhead charged in, carrying a Vehicon. Ratchet looked the mech over—involuntary stasis, probably from an EM shock, energon loss—said, “Put him there,” and turned his attention to the one Arcee and Wheeljack supported, a far more extreme case; he could see weak sparklight though the ventral plating.

“What assistance do you require?” said Optimus. Ratchet didn’t look up. 

“Get an energon line into the one on the berth,” he said, and deactivated the patient’s pain sensors, overriding the chest paneling so he could get a better look at the damage. 

Two more Vehicons came through the bridge, supporting another between them. Ratchet glanced at him, said, “Get a patch on that leg,” and went back to work, far too aware of the dimming flicker of the Vehicon’s spark. He removed a large piece of shrapnel from the inside of the sparkchamber—lucky mech, a little higher and it would have struck the spark itself— sealed the gap before energon could flood the chamber. “Starscream. Hand me the sheet metal labeled SC-1.”

A brief delay as Starscream scrabbled through the kit for it. Ratchet seized it, began patching holes. The sparklight was somewhat stronger now, but other wounds leaked energon in a slow, steady trickle. He glanced up after he’d closed the injury, saw Optimus had done a competent job with the temporary patch on the severed leg, though the patient was keening. Ratchet went to him, mentally cursing the idiocy of the slagger who decided only medics should carry medical-grade cables. 

He offlined the sensors in the area, put the Vehicon into stasis for good measure, and turned to the others. “Well?”

“Just mesh wounds,” said Arcee, frowning at a cut on her arm. 

“Good,” said Ratchet, and checked the energon line on the first Vehicon. Just energon loss, easily fixed with a patch. “Megatron, the one on the end will need a new leg. Call Knockout. I want to perform the repair as soon as possible, before his autorepair systems incorporate the patch into his schematics. I do not have the necessary replacements to hand.”He glanced up. “Wheeljack, get over here. I want a look at that arm.”

“Aw, Doc—”

“NOW, Wheeljack.” Bulkhead laughed. Ratchet fixed him with a glare. “You’re next.”

He had barely finished checking the Autobots and the remaining two Vehicons when Knockout came through, carrying a standard medical kit. “What seems to be the matter?” he asked.

“Here,” said Ratchet, “severed leg, severe trauma to sub-articular lines and sensors, contusions on the ventral plating and fraying to the associated stays. The articulation itself has been crushed—”

“Blunt-force trauma,” said Knockout, and reached into his kit. “Given the state of the injury, I suggest amputation above the articulation?”

“I concur,” said Ratchet. “Have you a replacement?”

“Right here,” said Knockout, pulling it out of his subspace. “I’ll remove the damaged one; you prepare this one for transplant.”

Ratchet nodded and went to work. 

Even with the amputation and the clean edges that it allowed them to work with, there were complications—damage to the energon lines had been reflected up into the thigh, given the twisting nature of the original trauma. The kids had left by the time they finished and brought the Vehicon back online. 

The Vehicon lapsed into recharge immediately, an indicator of extreme energon loss, and they put him on his own line and went to the washracks—the two of them were all over energon and exhausted. Knockout didn’t even make any disparaging comments about the cheap human solvents. 

“Good job,” said Ratchet, as they staggered back into the medbay to keep an optic on the patients. 

“Same,” said Knockout. “Explains why no one’s managed to snuff one of yours for a while.”

Ratchet humphed and ran a critical optic over the readings. “They’re still all stable.”

“Well,” said Knockout, turning to the bridge, “Lovely making your professional acquaintance, Autobot. I have things to be doing.”

“Street racing?” said Ratchet, rather wryly, having been privy to many of Starscream’s complaints on the matter.

Knockout winked at him. “You’re only young once,” he said, and stalked back through the groundbridge.

Ratchet sighed and arranged himself on a free patch of floor, plugging himself into the medical monitors so that they would wake him should anything go wrong with the patients, and fell into a heavy recharge.

 

——

“What’s the damage report?” snapped Silas.

Tailspin looked up at him from where he sat with Lightwing’s helm cradled in his lap. They’d done all they could with crude patches. But the damage was far beyond anything they’d been trained to handle. 

That slagging Autobot glitch.

Tailspin put a hand over Lightwing’s helm and just held him, feeling the flyer’s trembling. Not good. Not good at all.

“Well?” Silas barked, and Tailspin flinched. He took in a deep ventilation. 

“He needs a medic,” he said. “We’ll lose him otherwise. We can’t afford that. Sir.”

Silas looked at him a long moment, a sneer distorting Breakdown’s mouth. Tailspin stared steadily back at him. He knew Silas had no choice; replacing Lightwing would be nearly impossible. 

“We have technicians,” said Silas at last.

“We need a medic,” Tailspin repeated. “Your technicians might easily cause more damage than they repaired.”

They both looked at Lightwing. 

“Very well,” Silas said at last. 

“He’ll need more energon, too,” said Tailspin, keeping his voice firm. “I’m not a medic. But I know a serious injury when I see one.”

“He’ll have it,” said Silas, grudgingly. 

“Thank you,” said Tailspin, pulling Lightwing closer to him. 

Silas left, and Tailspin relaxed somewhat. The others moved a considerate distance away—not that he particularly cared. 

“Tailspin?” said Lightwing, almost unintelligible with static. 

“I’m here,” he said. 

“Please, keep talking?”

“I will. What do you want me to talk about?”

Lightwing hummed, and pressed his helm back against Tailspin’s dorsal plating. “Why do you have so much faith in Lord Megatron? The real reason?”

Tailspin hesitated. 

“You...you don’t have to...” said Lightwing. 

Tailspin took a deep ventilation. “Before the war, I had slave coding,” he said, uncomfortably aware that the others were listening. But...it was a good story, something to give them hope. “I was a military enforcer of the meanest sort—our division did the sort of work no one else would. The only reason we did it was our slave coding. The mech who commanded us had us do such things—” He cut himself off, not wanting to go further. Silas was better than that memory. “I was in Kaon,” he said. “We saw the revolution start. The first time I saw Lord Megatron speak, it gave me hope. The first hope I’d had since I’d been brought online. The commander didn’t think Lord Megatron of much note, and before the commander could order us not to, I went to offer what little help I could. I could not tell them of the coding, but they asked, and when I was silent Lord Megatron knew. And then,” and the wonder of it, the joy of it, came back to his spark as he told it, “he scrubbed me of it. Himself. He could have had Soundwave or Shockwave do it, but he did it himself, from his own code. And he told me that I could now cleanse others, and he sent me back to my division to free them.”

He paused, stroking Lightwing’s helm. 

“I only realized later, that one can only deactivate the code for someone else if one carries it. I realized then, Lord Megatron was slave coded, just like us.”

He glanced down, and found that Lightwing had fallen into recharge. He leaned his helm back against the wall, and looked up at the stars, memories burning bright with hope.  

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Headcanon says that most of the Autobots in the base have basic first-aid training, but Optimus is the least squeamish about it and so is Ratchet's preferred assistant. Bumblebee and Bulkhead are absolutely useless about it and Arcee will do the job, but "Optimus has steadier hands"... ( _Operation Bumblebee_ )


	6. Chapter 6

Optimus returned from the washracks to find Megatron had settled on his berth, glaring at a datapad. 

“Well?” he said, looking up. “Did you order your Autobots to assist distressed Decepticons?”

“I did not,” said Optimus. “Arcee tells me that it was a decision on Wheeljack’s part.”

“Interesting,” said Megatron. 

“Wheeljack does have passing experience with MECH,” said Optimus. “Nevertheless, I am glad that the situation was resolved in the manner that it was. No amount of cooperation on our parts will compensate for lingering resentment on those of our officers.”

Megatron turned his attention to the datapad again. “Indeed. Prime, what is the meaning of this? Rights over human ‘energy production byproducts’?”

Optimus came over to look at the datapad as well. “The byproducts referred to are depleted uranium rods; they are used in human nuclear reactors. They are primarily composed of lead, and the residual radioactive isotopes are a very close equivalent of those found in high-grade. The humans are eager to get rid of them; Arcee and Bulkhead are particularly fond of them. The only drawback is the necessity of fully metabolizing the isotopes before coming into close proximity to humans.”

Megatron looked at the pad a long moment. “You mean to say that you’ve found a way to get overcharged from lead?”

Optimus nodded. 

“Perhaps humans aren’t so useless after all,” said Megatron, and scrolled down. “Mining rights?”

“An even split seemed only reasonable.”

“Not with the Autobots monopolizing the highgrade lead.”

The distant sound of the proximity alert saved Optimus from a renewed argument over the much debated mining rights. “That is likely Agent Fowler,” he said. 

“I have other matters to attend to, in any event,” said Megatron, and followed him.

“Prime, we need to talk,” said Agent Fowler when Optimus came into the main room. “Now, and privately.”

Optimus nodded, glanced at Megatron, who smirked, and stepped into the open groundbridge with the datapad still in one hand. That probably boded ill for the mining rights. 

The groundbridge closed, and Optimus looked down at Agent Fowler and activated his transformation protocols.

Optimus still spent as little time in his alt mode as possible, but it grew easier with repetition. This time, there was only a disconcerted lurch at the cramped position, a ghost of weight in his driver’s seat, quickly dismissed. He shrugged the passenger door open. 

Agent Fowler climbed in without a word. 

Optimus pinged Ratchet, informing him of his departure, and started out of the base. “What is it, Agent Fowler?”

“The higher-ups are really nervous,” Agent Fowler said. 

“I am hardly surprised,” said Optimus. “After last week’s attack, they have good cause to be. We are taking all measures possible to locate and free the Vehicons involved.”

Fowler shifted in his seat. “Not what I meant,” he said. “They’re nervous about you.”

That gave Optimus pause. “About the Cybertronian presence on Earth, or the Autobots in particular? We would never take any action to harm—”

“About you, Prime. They saw what happened to the MECH facility. And…” He trailed off, and shifted his weight again. When he said nothing, Optimus asked, “Agent Fowler? Are you well?”

“Look, I don’t know how to phrase this,” said Agent Fowler. “I guess part of the question would be, ‘are _you_ well?’, because...things have gotten freaky recently.”

“Miko uses that term in so many contexts that I fear I must ask for clarification.”

“What the scrap is Starscream doing in your base?” demanded Fowler. “For that matter, what the scrap is Megatron doing in your base on a daily basis with big red patches of paint across his back? And this time, when I come in, I find Ratchet being defensive over three Decepticon mooks! Oh, and let’s mention last Tuesday when I found Raf reading _The Lord of the Rings_ to _Starscream!_ ”

“The negotiations are attended by a number of complicating factors,” said Optimus. “Starscream’s presence is one of them. He is presently unaffiliated with either the Decepticons or the Autobots—”

“And is the paint transfer another result of a complicating factor?”

Optimus allowed his tone to grow severe. “Agent Fowler, I did refer to the complexities of Cybertronian diplomatic protocols, did I not?”

“You did,” said Agent Fowler. “Is that your explanation?”

“It is a result of the delicate procedures surrounding the resolution of the difficulties raised by my lack of a Lord High Protector,” said Optimus. 

“And what would those be?—Look, Prime, I’m sorry, I’ve got to ask. General Bryce is convinced that you’re having some kind of...affair with Megatron.”

Optimus stalled, earning a startled noise from Agent Fowler as he jolted to a stop. Putting himself back into gear and starting up again (fortunately, there wasn’t anyone else on the road), he said, “Exactly what led General Bryce to this conclusion?”

There was a long, long silence from Agent Fowler. 

Optimus decided he was better off saying nothing. 

“Are you?” said Agent Fowler after a while. 

“That is a highly personal question, Agent Fowler.”

“But a necessary one. Optimus, they’re worried you’re going to sell us out to Megatron. General Bryce is convinced that you’re only pursuing this peace for personal reasons, that your presumed relationship with Megatron is clouding your judgement, if not worse.”

Optimus pulled off the road. He would prefer not to be driving while he had this conversation. “My personal feelings are not a factor in these negotiations,” he said. “Our war ended our world, Agent Fowler. If Megatron is willing to make peace—and he has convinced me that he is sincere—I will do anything I can to make it possible. To make my world live again.”

“Look, big guy, I believe you, but the Pentagon isn’t going to. General Bryce has been getting increasingly hostile. It’s only a matter of time until I get orders to obtain that code.”

“And what exactly would your government consider doing with that code?” said Optimus. “Neither Decepticons nor Autobots pose a current threat—”

“I have a couple damn nasty suspicions,” said Agent Fowler. 

“Are you at liberty to voice them?” said Optimus. 

“I think I’d better,” said Agent Fowler. “Before I’m ordered to carry out any of them—and if I am, I don’t know what I’ll do. I swore an oath to my country. I can’t pick and choose the orders I obey, but if they’re planning what I think they are, it’s wrong. It goes past any wrong that we’ve ever done and I _don’t know what I’ll do._ ”

Optimus sat silent for a while, as Agent Fowler drew a deep breath, evidently unhappy. 

“I think their first target will be you,” he said. “You are in authority and you trust me.”

Optimus’s spark turned over in him, a cold terror washing through his frame. He felt suddenly trapped, and he shuddered, plating lifting and falling back into place. 

_Welcome to MECH, soldier._

He wrenched himself out of the memory. “Are you sure?” he asked, and his voice was not steady. 

Agent Fowler was holding very, very still. “It’s only a guess,” he said. “But I think it’s the most likely. They think you’re going to roll over and allow Megatron the run of the place, or worse still, team up with him and invade. They’ve ordered me to report to them if you attack even a MECH facility. General Bryce thinks we’ll be next. And I think the only reason he hasn’t already ordered me to obtain the code is because he isn’t sure of my loyalties.”

“Or,” said Optimus, the cold terror still running through his lines, “they already have it.”

Fowler said nothing. 

“Your species needs this peace as badly as we do,” he said. “I do not wish to see Earth destroyed as Cybertron was. And my species will become extinct if this war continues, and that I cannot allow, not if here is the faintest reasonable chance of peace. There have been no sparklings for over two thousand of your years, Agent Fowler, and even the one isolated incident I heard of may not have been true. We are a _dying_ species _,_ and you wish us to go back to butchering each other, because your superiors are frightened that we will act as they would in our position?”

Fowler was silent. 

“You know that Prime is far more than just a title,” Optimus said quietly. “I was supposed to protect Cybertron and all that dwelt upon it, and so I fought Megatron and all who followed him, for that was what my spark knew was right. And as we fought, blind to the world, the towers of Cybertron fell in terrible ruin about us, and all we defended died. Now, on this world, I learned what drove Megatron to fight—this code that we made to enslave our own now turned against us. Megatron never should have turned to violence, but I understand now why he did, and now that he knows our horror of it to be as great as his, he is willing to make peace.”

“Optimus, I want to stop this as much as you do,” said Fowler. “Humans have their nasty chapters of history too, this country included. I don’t want to see that revisited, regardless of whether it’s humans or your people on the receiving end. And I _certainly_ don’t want to play a role in it.”

He paused and in-vented deeply.  “There’s a way out of this—whatever you do to rescue those Vehicons, make sure that there’s no act of overt aggression that can be traced back to you. I can help. And I can observe. Not sure how seriously Bryce and his boys will take me, but I can try and assure them of your good faith.”

“Thank you, Agent Fowler. I do not wish you to take any action that may put you in danger.”

“Don’t worry, it’s my job,” said Agent Fowler. 

Optimus turned back onto the road. “If it is of any consolation, Megatron and I have every reason to be optimistic about our negotiations.”

“Glad to hear it. So, when’s the wedding?”

It took Optimus a few moments to understand that reference. When he did, he merely said, “We shall see.” 

Even though the human term didn’t entirely apply, he didn’t have the spark to correct Fowler. Fowler had voiced his uncertainty, but his very presence indicated which side he would ally with should the need arise.

 

——

Knockout was deep in a desert somewhere in North America when he saw the blue truck behind him. 

Disbelief swept over him first, followed by wild irrational hope, and he turned off the road and nosed down into a deep concrete drainage channel, enough so that he could stand upright under it, and waited. The blue truck followed him and yes, there was no mistaking it, it _was_ Breakdown. 

He transformed and walked toward him and Breakdown changed too, and now it was _definite_ , it was Breakdown looking down at him with amusement in his single yellow optic. 

“It’s really you,” he said, idiotically, but couldn’t bring himself to feel embarrassed about it. 

Breakdown rumbled a laugh and placed a huge hand on Knockout’s shoulder. “Of course it is,” he said. 

Knockout pushed aside all the parts of his processor clamoring about how this was impossible, shouldn’t happen, and smiled up at his mate, stroking along transformation seams. Breakdown shivered, pleased. 

“Where the Pit were you?” said Knockout, trying to keep his tone light and failing. “I’ve been having to put up with Starscream and Megatron all on my own. Never mind that—”

A hand touched him under the chin, and Breakdown leaned and pressed his mouth to his, a gentle nibble of dentae. Knockout froze, not sure _where_ Breakdown had picked _that_ up and not sure if he really liked it all that much, but then his glossa flicked invitingly at Knockout’s mouth. Knockout opened his mouth and tried a nibble back, and _oh_ did this give him ideas! His hands went to work on Breakdown’s back, pressing closer to him. He was solid, he was real, and even if he was doing strange human things with his mouth, Knockout didn’t care. 

“What was that?” he said when they parted, propping his chin on Breakdown’s chest plating and shuttering his optics up at him. “And you still haven’t answered my previous question.”

“Human custom,” said Breakdown, and cupped the back of his helm in one massive hand. 

“Mmm. They’re not a complete loss, I suppose.” Breakdown’s other hand was making slow circles over his lower dorsal plating and _Primus_ it felt good. “You know, Lord Megatron isn’t expecting me back for _quite_ some time.” He trailed a hand down Breakdown’s back invitingly. 

“That sounds…good.” Breakdown smiled slowly down at him. “Shall we go somewhere more…private?”

“Like where? This is as good as we’re going to get,” said Knockout. “Come on, the humans won’t notice.”

“Well,” said Breakdown, “I know a few places.” He caught Knockout’s wrist and started down the drainage channel. 

Knockout hung back. “But—”

“Don’t be stubborn,” said Breakdown, and everything that had been clamoring that this was wrong woke up again and Knockout dug his heels in and looked hard at Breakdown. 

“I’m sure that Dipstick will be happy to see you again,” he said, watching Breakdown’s face. 

Breakdown grinned again. “Dipstick? He’s just going to have to wait. You’re the important one—”

Knockout stopped dead and tried to pull away. 

“What is it?”

“Dipstick is the laboratory inspector, not a friend. You’re not Breakdown.” Knockout’s vocalizer rasped static. He reset it and took a step back, fear and rage warring in his spark at the abomination before him. “Let go.”

The thing wearing Breakdown’s body laughed, low and satisfied. “Good observation,” it said, and twisted the hand that it held up behind Knockout’s back, slammed him into the concrete with a knee in his dorsal plating. “But too late.”

Knockout bucked, trying to dislodge him, but Breakdown was still heavier than he, far heavier, and still laughing and pressing blunt fingers to the back of his neck, looking for the medical port there. 

_No no no no_ —He transformed his hand, and the abomination swore, human curses, tried to shift its grip off the spinning blade and he wrenched free, tried to scrabble back to his feet and couldn’t, only managed to turn over with Breakdown straddling him in an obscene parody of intimacy. He slashed at the thing’s face, air sobbing through his ventilators, and what had been Breakdown’s face twisted in rage. 

“We’d prefer you undamaged,” it snarled, and pinned Knockout’s other hand back to the ground. “Prefer, not need.”

Knockout beat at its reaching hand with the saw, forcing it to raise it to defend itself. He tried to transform the other hand, found it impossible as the abomination clamped down on his wrist, damaging stays.

“I’ll be honest,” and that smug tone was back in the thing’s voice as it fended off blows, “I didn’t expect this much trouble from you.”

Knockout spat static and lunged for it again. The abomination brought out Breakdown’s hammer, and Knockout only just managed to turn aside from the blow, jabbing upward. 

The grip on his wrist loosened, and he struck at anything solid he could reach and now it was the abomination screaming, stumbling up and back, and Knockout went for the spark. 

Hammer in the way, Breakdown’s voice pleading. He hesitated a moment, and a blow lifted him off his pedes and slammed him into a pillar of the overpass. His gyros disequilibrated, the world lurching around him, and a huge hand seized him by the shoulder. He lashed at it, jammed a blade hard into the juncture between arm and shoulder, always sensitive on Breakdown, went for the chest armor, no art to it, savaging whatever he could reach.

The thing threw him into the pillar again. He staggered, legs were swept out from under him and he went on his front in the dust. He turned over, shoved both feet into the monster’s middle as it bent to seize him, and kicked. Now he had space. Now he could pull out his prod. 

The abomination charged him again, and he stepped aside and jammed the shock prod into the side of its neck. It screamed, jerked, charge leaping over its plating, and crumpled at his feet. He jabbed it again, and again, until it merely twitched and then knelt next to it, ventilating in harsh little gasps. 

Then he extended a medical cable from his wrist and looked at it, fear and shock and instinct abandoning him. Offline the monster, or try something else?

Try something else, he decided, and connected to that medical port. “You scratch my paint, I scratch yours.” It came out flat and tired, and he looked through the library of codes he’d collected over the years. Perfect. 

No reaction as he loaded the code onto what had been Breakdown’s body. No reaction as he disconnected. No reaction as he dragged himself to his pedes and stared down at the thing that had been his mate, the center of his universe. No reaction as the disgust and horror became too much and he purged his tanks against a pillar. Only the sounds of approaching helicopters. 

He didn’t want to know what those were. He walked some distance away, transformed and commed Megatron, trying to ignore the lurching in his tanks.


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Trigger warning for a character getting triggered.

The base was crawling with activity. Every bot in the place crowded into the main room, Starscream included, and the kids were leaning over the railing to get a better view. Even the wounded Vehicons were there, leaning against each other, visors on the screen.

Optimus waited for Agent Fowler to get clear of him, then transformed. “Ratchet, has there been an emergency?”

“You might say so,” said Ratchet. “Megatron just contacted us. He says there’s been a major development in the search for the Vehicons and has refused to state particulars on an unsecured channel. He wants to call a meeting aboard the _Nemesis_ , immediately.”

“With whom?” said Optimus.

“He leaves that to your judgement.”

Optimus looked over the group. “Ratchet, are your patients in a such a state that you are able to attend this meeting?”

“They’re fine,” said Ratchet, and turned a glare that sent the Vehicons cowering. “Or they _would_ be, if they would _stay in berth_.” 

“Er,” said one of the Vehicons. “Actually, sir, we’d like to go back if it’s at all possible.”

Optimus looked at Ratchet.

Ratchet ex-vented, irritated. “Fine. Fine, they can be moved, but I’ll be telling Knockout to get you lot horizontal as fast as possible, understood?”

“Yes, sir,” said the Vehicon. 

Starscream reset his vocalizer. “Actually, if I may make a suggestion?”

“Yes, Starscream?”

“Rafael and I will accompany you. We have developed something that may be of interest to both you and,” he all but snarled the name, “Megatron. Just make sure that glitchheaded progeny of a waste compactor doesn’t give me any orders. Accidental or intentional.”

Optimus looked at Rafael. “I am reluctant to endanger, however slightly, any of the children,” he said. 

“Bumblebee and I will be more than competent at protecting the human child,” said Starscream. “Besides, Rafael is the one who actually _has_ the slagging thing.”

“Prime,” said Agent Fowler, “I want to come too. This way I can tell the Pentagon that I was here and that you’re not being intentionally opaque in your dealings with Megatron.”

This was turning into an unprecedented mess. Optimus caught Miko’s eye—Miko gave him a challenging glare. 

“Bulkhead, Arcee, you will remain here with Miko and Jack.” He ignored Miko’s complaint. While he was quite sure that Megatron would not, at this point, resume hostilities, there was still a significant chance that some other party might initiate an altercation. “Bumblebee, if there is trouble, you are to take Rafael and depart, even if it means leaving the rest of us behind. Wheeljack, the same goes for you and Agent Fowler.”

Starscream snorted with derisive amusement, but said nothing. 

“Did Megatron supply us with coordinates?”

“He did,” said Ratchet. “They’re already programmed into the groundbridge.”

“Very well,” said Optimus, and looked over the assembled beings. Very few of them were Autobots. Fewer still were capable of rolling. He elected to say nothing.

——

“What are _they_ doing here?” was Megatron’s first question, glaring at the humans, Raf standing in Bumblebee’s cupped hands, Agent Fowler on Wheeljack’s shoulder. 

“While you may have found some new important _clue_ in your search for our missing Vehicons,” said Starscream, sauntering forward, “this human and I have discovered something that will prevent future disappearances.”

“Agent Fowler wishes to be present so that he can assure his government that we are not behind the recent attacks,” said Optimus, and met Megatron’s optics. 

“Very well,” growled Megatron, casting a suspicious glance at Raf. “We will attend to that later. For now, Knockout has a very interesting report.”

“Interesting. Hah,” said Knockout with a faint ghost of his usual arrogance. He had both hands tightly wrapped around a cube of energon, and the liquid rippled as he trembled. The plating of one wrist was dented. 

“Your report, Knockout,” said Megatron. 

Knockout raised the energon to his mouth, lowered it again before drinking. “I was patrolling. I can give the coordinates. I encountered Breakdown.” He in-vented deeply. “Only, it wasn’t Breakdown.”

“Breakdown was killed some time ago,” clarified Dreadwing. “By Airachnid.”

“The...the _abomination_ attempted to upload some code onto me,” said Knockout. “I subdued it and returned the favor.”

“Precisely what did you upload?” asked Optimus. He had deep misgivings about what Knockout might have seen fit to do.

“Nothing as nasty as what it intended to do to me, I assure you,” said Knockout. “It disabled its abilities to mask its locator beacon, and its ventilation fans. It will slowly overheat until it dies. Or finds a medic.”

“This attack may be connected to the disappearances of the Vehicons,” said Optimus. 

“I am sure of it,” said Megatron. “The question remains: what to do with this new intelligence?”

“Track it down and kill it,” spat Starscream. “And take the rest of those humans to _pieces_ for this!”

“We can’t do that,” said Agent Fowler, and everyone looked at him, anger from the Decepticons, confusion from most of the Autobots, resignation from Optimus. “Look, I know this is a major threat to you guys, but the Pentagon’s gotten real twitchy about your current alliance, and any attack on a human facility will just make things worse. Whatever we do, we’ll have to keep it quiet.”

“Thus far, they have been avoiding attacks on officers,” said Optimus after a moment’s deliberation. “That they attempted to capture Knockout demonstrates that they need a particular skill that none of the captured Decepticons have. After the earlier altercation, it stands to reason that they require the services of a medic.”

Knockout shuddered. “Alright, no racing for a while. Got it.” 

“I do believe this is where we come in,” said Starscream to Rafael, with a smirk. He sauntered forward, deliberately not looking at Megatron, but rather at Dreadwing. “You see, this human specializes in computers—terribly _primitive_ computers, but there are pertinent applications to our current situation. For example, they have something called a ‘honeytrapper’—”

“A honeytrap,” Raf corrected. “It’s something a lot of our computers have. It offers a secondary code that a malignant code infects instead of the executive code that it targets, and traps it there.”

“Think you can repeat that in English, son?” said Agent Fowler.

Raf sighed, evidently used to this sort of response. “It means that a code can be downloaded, but not fully installed. It’ll keep the slave code in its own special—uh, ‘trap’—where it can’t affect the rest of someone’s coding.”

“The human concept took some adapting to a Cybertronian processor,” said Starscream. “I helped with that.”

“And a lot more. Honeytraps are usually a preventative measure rather than a cure, which would have meant _any_ code downloaded affecting executive processes would be trapped. Since that would make Ratchet’s life really difficult, we had to make it specific to the slave coding, which was a headache,” said Raf. “We haven’t gotten to test it on anything but computers, but it _now_ works fine. If we install it on everyone, MECH won’t be able to put slave coding on anyone ever again.” He hesitated, and then added, “Well, unless someone figures out how to break through it. But they probably won’t even know it’s there. To them, it’ll look like the code’s been downloaded and is running, but it won’t actually affect the bot carrying it.”

Optimus looked at Megatron, who had a very speculative look in his optics. “There are other uses for this than mere prevention,” he said. “We could place a spy of our own within MECH.”

“Ahem,” said Ratchet. “Won’t work. Not until you have a way to scrub the slave coding from the mechs already carrying it. Shockwave and I have been working on that, but we haven’t made the same progress.”

“Far from it,” said Shockwave, stepping forward. “The code itself is particularly virulent. It will take us at least another three of this planet’s rotations to have something that can be tested, another two after that before we have something effective—under ideal conditions. In reality, it is likely to take longer.”

“I can help,” said Raf. “And if Starscream pitches in—”

“No!” said Starscream, raising his hands. “I doubt it will allow me to do any such thing, and I am _not inclined to test it!_ ”

“Starscream’s concern is logical,” said Shockwave. “The code doubtless is designed to prevent the affected individual from scrubbing it on his or her own.”

“Our priority should be finding a way to remove the slave coding, then,” said Optimus. “Extensive collaboration will be required.”

“Indeed,” said Megatron, and turned to Knockout. “You will assist the Autobots and Shockwave—Yes, Soundwave?”

Soundwave stepped forward and cocked his helm, gesturing to Raf, who looked back at him with dawning comprehension. 

“Uh, can Soundwave help too?” he said. 

Megatron looked at Soundwave. Soundwave inclined his helm. 

After a moment, Megatron nodded. 

Optimus had his doubts about allowing Soundwave anywhere near the base’s computers, but that was something to be discussed later, in private, with Megatron, to prevent a show of distrust. “Have we addressed all the matters at hand?” he asked. 

“Save for the matter of mining rights,” said Megatron, with an expression that promised no good to the Autobot cause. “But I daresay that the matter can be addressed at a later time.”

“Indeed,” said Optimus. He made a mental note to look up legal protocol on that matter as soon as possible. “I did want to raise one other question.”

“Which would be?” Megatron took a step forward, raising an optic ridge. 

“The matter of the Iacon database,” said Optimus. 

“The Iacon database is hardly a matter of pressing concern,” said Megatron. 

“I am given to believe that during my tenure on the _Nemesis_ that I assisted in decoding several of the entries in the database. It would be a valuable gesture of good faith on your part if you turned over the database so that I might continue the project.”

Megatron glowered down at him. Optimus looked back at him. 

“The one artifact that the database yielded was a weapon,” Megatron said.

“Indeed. Taking dangerous artifacts into joint custody would be yet another gesture of trust,” said Optimus.

Megatron’s glower shifted into a glare. 

“Further work on the database might also yield other objects of considerable use to the welfare of all Cybertronians on this world,” Optimus said. “As Soundwave will be preoccupied by the matter of the slave code, I am most suited for the task. One which will remain incomplete otherwise.”

“Very well, Prime,” growled Megatron. “You shall have it. I will, of course, have to check frequently to ensure that the Decepticon interests in the project are not compromised.”

“Of course,” said Optimus, reading that sentiment as it was intended, and keeping the anticipation strictly out of his field. 

The meeting concluded soon after that, without further event, and Soundwave conducted the Autobots back to the groundbridge; Optimus provided coordinates some distance away from the base, and Arcee bridged them back from there. A laborious undertaking, but a necessary one if negotiations went badly, as they still might. The cold look that Dreadwing had bent upon the Autobots, and Bumblebee in particular, worried him.

——

“What is it, Dreadwing?” said Megatron. Optimus had left, taking Starscream with him, and the bridge was only occupied by a handful of Vehicons and Soundwave. 

When Dreadwing shifted his weight with an audible thump of pedes on the deckplates, Megatron turned to look at him. 

And met an expression of utter rage and a drawn sword. Megatron raised an optic ridge, and didn’t move his hands from where he had folded them behind his back. 

“You betray and dishonor us all,” said Dreadwing. “I thought it a rumor until I saw it with my own optics. You sell us to the Autobots, as you foully consort with the traitorous Prime, my twin’s murderer. You would hand him the Iacon records, you would hand him the very spark of our cause, and for what? Your own base pleasure?” The tip of the sword quivered with his rage. “You are not worthy to lead us, Megatron. You have betrayed the Decepticon cause.”

“And you would be more qualified?” said Megatron. 

“I would not sell us to the Autobots!” roared Dreadwing, and charged. 

Megatron sidestepped, bringing out his own blade. Dreadwing slashed at him. He blocked the blow and seized Dreadwing by the shoulder, throwing him to the ground. Dreadwing scrambled back upright. Megatron’s claws caught him across the faceplates, and he struck at Megatron’s head, shearing the point of a shoulder spike instead. 

Megatron didn’t notice it, moved in again, jamming his blade into the joint of Dreadwing’s shoulder, and Dreadwing gritted his dentae, pride and pain warring on his faceplates. Megatron yanked the blade free. 

Dreadwing switched his sword to his other hand and charged, caught Megatron under the chestplate, missing the spark chamber, still a severe wound, turned his blade—

And Megatron fired. 

The bolt from the fusion cannon tore through Dreadwing’s spark chamber, freezing the shock on his face as his optics went dead. Megatron lowered his arm, pressing a hand over his side to staunch the flow of energon, and looked down at the corpse a long moment. 

“Pity,” he remarked, and turned to Soundwave. “Inform Knockout that I require his services.”

With that, he left the bridge, energon seeping bright between his claws.

——

Optimus ex-vented heavily, and attempted to focus on the task before him. Megatron, true to his word, had transmitted the contents of the Iacon database, and, as he was little help to Ratchet just now, he was attempting to decipher its contents. The atmosphere of the base was far from conducive to concentration—the murmur of voices from the med-bay made a confusing counterpoint to the sound of the TV, which had the full attention of Starscream and the kids. 

“Awwww man!” said Miko. “Commercial break!?”

Optimus tuned out the noise of the commercials as best he could, half wondering who the humans expected to buy all the goods being advertised. A familiar pattern of glyphs caught his optic, and he isolated it, adjusted the parameters, and ran the following sequence through the program.

It flashed bright, indicating success, and he allowed himself a small flare of satisfaction. 

One especially loud announcement broke through his concentration. 

_“...your dream vacation!”_ said a smug human voice. _“We’ll do all the work….just relax and enjoy it!”_

Shriek. Explosion. Scent of burnt plastic, the kids yelling, and Optimus came around the corner at a run with battle protocols screaming to life. 

“Is everyone all right?” he asked. 

“We’re fine!” said Jack, sticking his head up over the couch, which had a burn mark in the back. The TV was melted. 

“What the frag was that?” said Miko. “Starscream just freaked, melted the TV and ran!”

“Ratchet, see to the humans. I will find Starscream.”

“Be careful, Optimus,” said Ratchet. “He is likely in a very delicate state of mind and may see you as an enemy.”

“I understand, old friend,” Optimus said, and went.

Starscream was difficult to find, but Optimus eventually located him jammed in the corner of a supply closet, knees hugged up to his chest, wings flattened and quivering. He was keening, very quietly, punctuated by gasping ventilations. 

He flinched when Optimus came near, optics wide, and raised his hands to defend himself. Optimus took a step back. Starscream stared at him a long moment, no recognition in his optics, then slowly lowered his head and went back to staring at the wall.

It was some time before he spoke. “You’re going to make me leave, aren’t you.” His voice was dull, uncaring.

Optimus shook his helm. “No,” he said. 

“Why? I attacked the children.” 

“You attacked the television.” Optimus knelt so he was on a level with Starscream. “You cannot expect to recover fully immediately.”

“It’s been _weeks_ ,” snarled Starscream. “It’s about _time!_ _You_ seem to have done well enough! _You’re_ not still dreaming about it! You don’t hear him on the slagging _television!_ You can even deal with the adult humans!”

Optimus looked away. He did still dream about it, sometimes, but Megatron’s presence gave him a definite boundary between the nightmares and the waking world. “It took time,” he said again. 

“Hah,” said Starscream. 

“And I needed help.”

“From Megatron, no doubt,” said Starscream, sourly. “Well, _good for you_. _You_ have your subordinates to bill and coo over you every time you so much as flinch, and Megatron coming to your rescue with fusion cannon blazing. I can’t even return _home_ , slag you! I can’t even resume my former post because your ever so _sweetsparked_ protector will have _nothing_ to do with me!”

“Megatron is more concerned for your safety than he would like you to know.”

“Pull the other one, it’s got biolights on,” said Starscream. “He despises me for not dying conveniently. You would have chosen to die cleanly rather than cling to life like I have, and he _despises_ me for not being _you_.”

Optimus shuttered his optics, choosing his words carefully. “Your choice was the braver one by far, Starscream,” he said. “It is always easier to die than to live, and by living, you have perhaps preserved many from a similar fate as yours. What you and Raf created will save sparks, even those yet to come online, from slavery and humiliation.”

Starscream snorted. “You have promised again and again and yet again that no one will suffer our fate, and look at how it’s turned out. Seven Decepticons captive and enslaved and us unaware of it until they attacked us. An effective Prime you’ve been.”

Optimus bowed his helm and said nothing. 

Starscream shifted his position, uncurling a little. “You have nothing to say to that, Prime?” he demanded. “No words in your defense?”

“None,” said Optimus. “I do not regret choosing to oppose Megatron—the crimes he committed at the beginning of the war were justification enough—but I regret every spark lost in this war. I regret my ignorance of the slave coding. Perhaps if I had known, I might have been able to effectively negotiate a settlement—”

“No,” said Starscream. “You wouldn’t have.”

Optimus shuttered his optics at him, taken aback, and Starscream elaborated, “There was too much anger for peaceful settlement. You didn’t see it. You were always too gentle to truly understand, Prime. It would have been violent despite your intervention.”

Optimus was silent a long moment, before he said, “Thank you, Starscream.”

Starscream made a small derisive noise. “Don’t take it to spark. Decepticon, remember?”

“Regardless, the sentiment is appreciated.” They sat a while, and then Optimus said, “If it is of assistance, I still find it unpleasant to spend any length of time in alt-mode.”

Starscream bobbed his helm. “You’re not the only one,” he said, quietly.

“Is there anything we can do to make sure that you don’t get surprised so unpleasantly again?”

Another derisive noise. “You want to know what made me melt the TV so I don’t scare the human pets again, don’t you?”

“Avoidance of a repeat would be preferable. Specifics, however, are far from necessary, and I would not like to in any way pressure you into giving more information than you wished to.”

“How very prettily put, Prime,” said Starscream. “The TV sounded like Silas.” He in-vented deeply. “They thought it was funny, you know. It amused them that a _robot_ had feelings. Silas—” his vocalizer rasped static, his mouth twisted in disgust. He reset it, said, all in a rush, “Silas made a lewd joke, like what that advertisement said, and they laughed.”

Optimus managed to repress a shudder. “I am sorry that we did not move against MECH sooner than we did.”

“It happened, Prime. Your regrets won’t do anything about it.”

Optimus in-vented deeply. “I regret it regardless. And I shall ensure that you do not recieve a similar unpleasant surprise in the future.” He rose. “And Starscream?”

“What?”

“Your work has been of great value. Thank you.”

Starscream smirked. It looked forced. “My work is always of great value, Autobot,” he said. “It’s hardly news to me.” 


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter, uh, came out more smutty than originally planned. Very, very NSFW.

There was a fresh weld on Megatron’s chestplates. 

Optimus waited until they had something like privacy, and then moved close to him, looking up at him with concern. “What happened?”

“Dreadwing took exception to our treaty,” said Megatron. He winced as he reached to put an arm around Optimus’s waist. “I terminated him.”

The offhand way he said that made Optimus’s spark chill, a reminder that, for all their intimacy, all their negotiations, Megatron was the same ruthless mech who had snuffed so many sparks with little regret. 

And, fool that he was, he did not pull away. He only said, “You are damaged.”

“A minor wound,” said Megatron, and winced again as he pulled Optimus close. “It will heal.”

Against the plating of his torso, Optimus felt Megatron’s interface array running hot. He withdrew slightly. “Was it necessary to kill him?”

“Unlike you, Optimus, I am not in the habit of leaving my enemies alive so that they can offline me at their convenience. Dreadwing would not have had it any other way, and it would have been cruel to leave him alive and disgraced.” Megatron bent his helm and nuzzled at the stays of Optimus’s neck. Optimus leaned into the touch, more tentatively than usual.

Megatron withdrew, looking somewhat peeved. “What’s gotten under your plating, Optimus? Is there any reason his death should distress you? He intended to renew our war; you said yourself that we could not afford it.”

“Dreadwing was an honorable warrior,” said Optimus. “I mourn his loss.”

Megatron snorted. “Mourn all you wish, Prime. It was still necessary.”

“And,” said Optimus, and placed a spread hand over the weld, “I am sobered to think of how close we came today to the loss of everything we have worked for these last few months. You must be more cautious, Megatron.”

Now Megatron looked simply annoyed. “I was a gladiator in the Pits of Kaon,” he pointed out, rather acidly. “And I survived Starsceam’s incompetent attempts on my life. So what makes you think Dreadwing posed such a threat to me?”

“The placement of this,” said Optimus. “A fraction higher, and it would have snuffed your spark.”

“Hah,” said Megatron, and capturing the back of his helm with one hand, pressed a vicious kiss to Optimus’s mouth, glossa pressing hard against his dentae. He withdrew.  “But I won. We triumphed.” 

Optimus was venting hard, interface systems warming in response to Megatron’s. He had his reservations about Dreadwing’s death. But Megatron’s obvious interest woke his as well, made delight rise within him as it had before the war, perhaps more acutely. 

Megatron’s hands made their way down his dorsal plating, stroked over his aft, one curling around a thigh, claws skittering over where silver plating met blue. 

“You are such a lovely thing,” Megatron growled into his audial, and his mouth closed over Optimus’s antennae, a gentle suction that coaxed a moan from him. 

“My Prime,” he said, when he withdrew, optics blazing, and lifted Optimus bodily, placed him on the edge of the desk, canting the workstation screen out of the way with one hand. “Mine to protect.” Another kiss, full of dentae. “Mine to defend.” The hand returned to trace the sensitive wiring between his legs, long lingering touches. Optimus’s panel snapped open. 

Megatron pressed hard against him, and Optimus wrapped his legs around him, cable nosing from its housing. 

“They made you magnificent, when they took you from me. You were lovely enough as an archivist, but as a warrior—” Megatron took Optimus’s cable into his mouth and _sucked_ and Optimus cried out, static and feedback, legs tightening. 

“You were meant to be a warrior,” said Megatron, withdrawing the cable, and Optimus cried out anew as cold air hit his connector. “Even surrounded by your datapads, you were fierce and bold. You made my spark sing within me, you gave me hope, that even within the corrupt heights of our world there existed mechs with courage. I thought you changed when you accepted the Matrix.” He pressed his cable into Optimus’s port, drawing static from him. “I was wrong.” 

Fierce protective instinct surged into Optimus, and then his cable plunged into Megatron’s warmth, tiny plates flexing around him, charge arcing into him, and Megatron’s arms were around him, clenching about his shoulders, pinpricks of pain where they scratched paint and armor, and Megatron’s mouth covered his, their dentae clashing. 

He overloaded, crying out into Megatron’s mouth, and Megatron went still and trembling over him, pressing him hard against the desk and the console. He thought Megatron offline—he was very near the same himself—but then Megatron lifted himself and said, very quietly, “You are my Prime, and I _shall_ protect you.” His hand cupped Optimus’s face in unusual tenderness. “From my own officers. From the humans, the Quintessons, Unicron himself—whatever this universe is fool enough to threaten you with, I will destroy.”

Optimus felt he ought to protest at the part about the humans, but he wasn’t sure he could voice anything of the sort without rasping static. He leaned against Megatron’s hand, shuttering his optics, struts and stays deeply relaxed and almost refusing to respond. 

“I hope,” he said after a very long time when they just leaned against each other, ventilating, “that you did not intend to get any political work of import done this evening.”

Megatron rumbled an incredulous laugh. “Were you?”

“Yes, but not now.” He leaned his helm on Megatron’s shoulder. “However, I would like to offer a suggestion.”

“Yes?”

“Take Starscream back as your second in command. Once the slave coding has been removed.”

“ _What?”_

Optimus stroked the edges of Megatron’s helm. “I have reason to believe that Starscream will be inclined to assist you, rather than depose you,” he said. 

Megatron made an irritated noise. “As if the latter is a serious threat,” he said.

“It is only a suggestion,” said Optimus, and leaned into Megatron’s bulk, recharge creeping up on him. He felt hands under his thighs, lifting him, still clinging to Megatron’s shoulders. 

“You have no concept of appropriate berth talk,” said Megatron very low into his audial, and Optimus smiled against his neck and drifted into recharge. 

——

Ratchet did not like working with Shockwave. Soundwave was barely better. And collaborating with both on an important project with Raf standing on the lab bench and making the lot of them feel like sparklings? Please. Scrap him now. 

 Raf’s presence was helpful, however. The section of the code that caused the victim’s executive processes to completely wipe the rest of the processor was a purely human invention, and Raf seemed to have a good idea of how it worked already, more than he could say for Shockwave or himself.

Shockwave was watching Raf with interest in his field, as Raf talked about the family of codes the modification came from and the common weaknesses they shared. And then he typed something, hit the execute key, and the screen of the computer they were testing the coding on flashed blue.

“That...wasn’t it,” said Raf. “Uh, let’s try again?”

More busy typing. Same result. 

It continued for several hours, but just when Bumblebee began to make urgent noises at Raf to pack up already and head home, there was a different result. The line of code glowing on the computer vanished. 

There was a distinct pause. 

“We did it,” said Raf.

“You did it,” said Ratchet.

“We must test it again to be sure,” said Shockwave.

“Of course!” Raf grinned widely. “Look, I gotta go home. But keep me updated, alright? Don’t try it on anyone until you’re certain.”

“Of course not,” said Ratchet, with a glare at the two Decepticons. “We’re not _all_ monsters.”

——

It was far later in the night cycle when Knockout put in an appearance. He spent a short time assisting in the testing of Raf’s code, his reluctance evident, and then excused himself under the pretext of checking on Starscream, who was, he pointed out, one of his patients. Arcee followed him, but as he did indeed meet up with Starscream and made no attempt to access any area he shouldn’t have or destroy anything, she left the two Decepticons in peace. 

“What is it?” snapped Starscream as soon as the Autobot had left. “Did Optimus complain about this afternoon’s little incident?”

“Nothing of the sort,” said Knockout. “I just wanted to check on how my _favorite_ patient is doing.”

“Hah,” said Starscream, wings flaring. “I meant the _real_ reason, Knockout.”

Knockout looked away, and didn’t say anything. 

“Well?”

“I wanted company,” muttered Knockout, and met Starscream’s incredulous expression with a glare. “I couldn’t recharge, all right? And the Vehicons are _hardly_ company, the scientists are muttering, and fragged if I’m about to go seek out _Megatron’s_ attention.”

“You couldn’t if you wanted to,” said Starscream.

“Oh?”

“He’s fragging Prime.”

“Huh. I thought that was Dreadwing’s imagination getting away with him—did you hear about Dreadwing?”

“Not a word,” said Starscream, and snarled. “Nobody tells me _anything_.”

“Megatron snuffed him.”

“What?”

“Yup. He tried to depose Megatron just after the meeting.” Knockout smirked. “Came pretty close, in fact. Much higher and—” He drew a thumb across his throat. 

Starscream’s wings drooped. “Who’s succeeding him?”

“Not the rustiest,” said Knockout, cheerfully. “Could be anyone. Soundwave, Shockwave, yours truly—” he caught Starscream’s posture and added, “Pit, it could even be you.”

“ _Hah.”_ Starscream folded his arms. 

Knockout stopped in the corridor. “Starscream. I’m not here to try and cheer you up or buff your ego. I want company and—” he reached into his subspace, “I brought highgrade.”

Starscream gave him an evaluating look. “Breakdown?”

Knockout nodded. “Can’t stand our quarters right now.”

Starscream hesitated, then shrugged. “Mine are this way. Can’t have the Autobots eavesdropping.” He started down the corridor, then turned on Knockout. “And no ‘facing.”

Knockout shuddered. “I understand entirely,” he said. “After the events of this afternoon, I am hardly inclined to. The only reason I’m here is because I can’t go for a nice long drive.”

Starscream snorted. “I might say the same for myself.”

“What, is your t-cog damaged?”

“No.” Starscream’s arms tightened over his chest. 

“I see,” said Knockout quietly. 

“No, you don’t,” snapped Starscream. “And I don’t want to talk about it.”

“Suit yourself,” said Knockout, and handed him a cube. Starscream opened the door to his quarters—really a repurposed storage closet—and stepped inside. 

Knockout looked around. “My sympathies,” he said. 

“Better than some,” said Starscream, and settled down on a pile of crates. Knockout joined him. 

“Got any juicy gossip about our fearless leader?” he asked. 

“Oh, you have _no_ idea,” said Starscream, and smirked.


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The next update might be a little delayed. I spent today fixing my bike rather than writing. *guilty expression*
> 
> (On the plus side, new bike! Well, 40 year old bike with issues. But an improvement on the !@#$ing beach cruiser.)

Ratchet didn’t have the courtesy to comm Optimus. 

Instead, Optimus and Megatron jolted awake to a pounding on the door. Megatron opened it, prepared to commit murder on an enormous scale, and encountered Ratchet, Soundwave and Shockwave, all recharge-deprived, all with fields flaring excitement and triumph. 

“We did it!” said Ratchet, rather too loudly for the time of the morning. “We’ve tested it on every permutation of the code we could devise and it _worked!_ ”

Optimus came up behind Megatron’s shoulder and shuttered his optics sleepily down at the scientists.

“Our tests lead us to conclude that our ‘antidote’ to the slave code has a 95.752% chance of eliminating the slave coding from an affected individual without damage to the subject’s processor,” said Shockwave. His normally controlled field was spiking with delight. “We only require a subject to test this on, as computers are not truly equivalent to a processor.”

“What the _Pit_ is going on out here?” demanded a voice, and Starscream and Knockout came around the corner, both dim-opticked with recharge. 

Ratchet, Shockwave and Soundwave turned as one bot, Ratchet casting a hopeful look at Optimus. 

Starscream stopped where he was and began to back away. 

“We’ve found a cure,” said Ratchet.

Starscream stopped. His wings lifted slightly. 

“Our calculations indicate that it has a 98.752% chance of eliminating the code without damage to your processor,” said Shockwave. 

Starscream has been a scientist. He stood there a long moment, weighing the odds. 

“You do not need to participate if you do not wish to, Starscream,” said Optimus, and Megatron suppressed the urge to roll his optics--Starscream’s cowardice would dictate that he _would_ refuse, given the chance. Optimus was a fool to provide him with such an easy excuse. 

But to his surprise, Starscream raised his helm and met his optics, challenging. “I’ll do it.”

——

Starscream leaned forward, allowing Ratchet access to the medical port at the back of his helm. The Autobot medic put a hand—evidently intended to be comforting—on his shoulder. “You’re sure?”

Fear made Starscream’s voice shrill. “I wouldn’t have said yes in the first place if I wasn’t! Slagging do it!” His hands trembled on the edges of the berth. He had insisted on sitting, rather than lying. Lying on his back brought too many bad memories. 

He looked up at Megatron, standing in the doorway, with Prime behind him. Megatron’s expression was unreadable. Starscream glared at him. _I am not the weak-sparked thing you think me,_ he thought, and Megatron shifted his weight slightly. He shifted his glance to Prime. 

_Dying is always easier than living_ , Prime had said, and Starscream bit back a bitter laugh. As someone who had a 1.358% chance of offlining in the next few seconds, he begged to differ. 

But the chance to rid himself of the code, regain his proper place at Megatron’s side, was too great a temptation. Starscream kept himself very still as Ratchet crossed around behind him with a medical cable, touching the back of his helm to give him proper warning, before the cable socketed in and the display in front of him came to life. 

He felt the slave code try to activate, felt the tugging at the edges of his memories,  tried to panic and wrench away but his frame did not obey him. Panic rose further, blanking his processor, and he felt twisted, strained, wanted to scream and couldn’t—

—and the slave coding winked away, leaving a blank place in his processor. Starscream sagged forward, gasping harsh ventilations. Knockout caught him by the shoulders, kept him upright. 

“The procedure was successful,” said Shockwave, and the world came back to him in a surge of sound. He hadn’t even realized his audials were disconnected before then. 

“Starscream?” said Ratchet. “How do you feel?”

“Like Pit,” said Starscream. “You couldn’t come up with something that didn’t try to shred my processor?”

“Would you like the honeytrap code as well?”

“Please,” said Starscream, and the world faded again, only briefly. Ratchet removed the cable from his neck. Starscream reached back to rub at it automatically. He was shaking, full-frame tremors that rattled him against the berth, and even though he now knew he was free, even with the blank patch in his processor, he could still _hear_ Silas in his memory, feel a phantom pain in his port—

“Starscream,” said Knockout’s voice, so different from Silas’s, and a delicate hand stroked the length of his arm. “Starscream, look at me.”

He onlined his optics, hadn’t even known they were offline. Knockout looked up at him, a most un-Knockout-like concern in his optics. 

“Well, Starscream?” said Megatron, and Starscream flinched. 

“Well, what?” he snapped, or tried to. It came out a whisper.

Knockout reset his vocalizer. “Lord Megatron, with all respect, I think that what Starscream needs most is privacy right now. Any procedure of this sort is traumatic, and the code did briefly activate.”

“Go,” said Optimus, and Starscream had never been so glad to hear the Prime’s voice. “There is much to discuss in any case.”

Starscream allowed Knockout to lift him to his pedes, allowed himself to be guided back to his quarters and set on the berth, and then Knockout settled next to him. 

Knockout’s hand lingered on his shoulder. “You’ve been spending too much time around the Autobots,” the medic said, very quietly. “That was utterly glitchhelmed and stupid and—”

“I calculated the odds again myself,” said Starscream, forcing his voice flippant. “Only a 1.358% chance of deactivation.”

Knockout stroked his shoulder, a gentle, comforting touch. “I suppose it would be unnecessarily sentimental to tell you how many sparks you just saved?”

“Yes,” said Starscream, and forced himself to stop shaking. “Put in a good word with Megatron about his next second in command, however—”

Knockout laughed. “I’ll see what I can do,” he said. “At a price. You don’t tell Megatron about my little racing jaunts.”

“Done,” said Starscream. 

Knockout cocked his head, listening to a comm signal, then patted Starscream on the shoulder again. “Must be going. Megatron has an itch in his plating over something and demands my presence.” He rose and made his way to the door, then paused. “Starscream?”

“Yes?”

“Try transforming sometime soon. Go for a flight.”

Starscream shuddered, remembering Silas’s orders. Knockout turned around and looked at him a long moment. 

“Starscream,” he said, very quietly, “You’re a Seeker. Long groundbound periods will increase your anxiety, not decrease it. As well as your heat output—and I know you haven’t been recharging properly, not without burning off that extra fuel.”

“I can’t,” snarled Starscream, coming to his pedes. “You don’t understand—I _can’t_. So take your patronizing professionalism _elsewhere_ , Knockout!”

Knockout bowed his helm and left. The door swished shut, and Starscream was in darkness again. 

He sat back on the berth, curled over himself with arms over his chestplates and keened, long and quietly, keened to vanquish the sound of Silas’s voice in his audials, keened because it felt as if his spark would burst otherwise, keened because the alternative was going after Knockout. 

The blank place where the slave coding should have been was no comfort.


	10. Chapter 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I do apologize for the long delay! I didn't get the new chapter done before I had to go off and do fieldwork, and so missed a second day... >.>
> 
> (But the fieldwork was fun, even if we dropped a flashlight in the lake and had to go swimming for it).

 Knockout couldn’t believe his audials. 

“You want me to do _what_?” he said, looking up at Megatron. 

“You will infiltrate MECH,” said Megatron.

“The honeytrap code will keep them from uploading the slave coding onto you,” explained Raf. “Then, you’ll transmit the antidote to the slave code to the captured Decepticons and bring them back here.”

“You mean I’ll have to let that monstrosity plug a medical cable into me? No thank you. Find someone else.”

“It was not a suggestion, Knockout,” growled Megaton “It was an order.”

“Send one of the Vehicons,” said Knockout, pettishly. “MECH’s been eager enough to get its hands on _them_.”

“But still more eager to get their hands on a medic,” pointed out Shockwave.

“Then send Ratchet. He’s an Autobot. He’s self-sacrificing enough, isn’t he?” 

Prime, looking deeply uncomfortable—Knockout would have enjoyed it under any other circumstance— reset his vocalizer. “MECH has only encountered Ratchet briefly, and from my time with them,” oh, he was good, not a flicker of discomfort in his field, not a hesitation in his voice, “they know that Ratchet rarely leaves the base. They would find his presence suspicious.”

Knockout folded his arms, and glared at Megatron. “I have patients,” he said. “That leg transplant is still critical, and as for the compromised spark chamber—”

“Ratchet will assume your duties while you are absent,” said Megatron. 

Knockout stared at him, optics wide. He _couldn’t_ confront that abomination again. He _couldn’t_. He didn’t care what Megatron would do if he refused; the horror overrode the fear of Megatron’s temper. 

“Megatron,” said Prime, “perhaps Knockout is not in fact the best choice for this mission. His previous experience—”

“He is the _only_ choice for this mission,” growled Megatron. 

“If MECH is indeed in need of a medic, Knockout is the only logical option,” said Shockwave. “The honeytrap code has an efficacy of 95.345%, and the time that it failed was because of the modification to the original slave coding made by Rafael, specifically designed to circumvent the honeytrap. Even then, the virulence of the code was greatly diminished.”

“I don’t care if the efficacy was 100%, I’m _not_ doing it,” snapped Knockout. 

“Megatron, there are other options,” said Prime. “Given its nature, this mission should only be undertaken by a volunteer.”

“And who would that be, Prime?”

There was a pause and now there _was_ a ripple of nervousness that went through Prime’s field. Knockout cocked his head, curious as to what, exactly, Optimus Prime wished to suggest.

“Myself,” said Prime, very quietly. 

He should have guessed. Knockout took two quick steps back as Megatron turned on the Autobot leader, incandescent rage flooding his field. 

“ _NO,_ ” he bellowed. Prime stood his ground, didn’t even shutter his optics, just looked up at Megatron with the most calm expression imaginable. “I _will not_ have it, Prime. You are _not_ risking yourself on this. You are _far_ too valuable, and I _shall not_ allow you to go bolting off because of some glitchhelmed concept of _duty_ , do I _make myself clear?_ ”

“I,” said Optimus, once the explosion had subsided, “shall participate in what missions I see necessary. Your permission is hardly required.”

“I am your Lord Protector—”

“Not until the treaty is ratified,” said Optimus. “Until then, I am a leader of an independent faction, albeit one cooperating with yours, and you have no authority to dictate my actions.”

Knockout watched, helm turning from one to the other as if watching a lob game. Well. This would make for some juicy gossip. Who knew that things had gotten so far along?

“Do _not_ attempt to feed me the same drivel as you do the humans!”

Primus, it was like watching an old bonded couple. He exchanged a look with Shockwave, who had tucked his field in close and was probably just as embarrassed as he by this whole situation. It seemed so petty. Not two leaders arguing about strategy, but rather a ‘you-left-an-open-cube-on-the-floor-and-I-stubbed-my-pede-on-it’ kind of altercation. 

“We will continue this discussion in _private_ , Megatron,” said Prime, with a significant glance at Knockout and Shockwave.

“Yes,” said Megatron. “Yes, we will, save for one particular; you are not participating in this particular mission. Knockout—”

“Yes, Lord Megatron?” So much for oiling out of it. 

“Report to Ratchet to have the honeytrap and antidote uploaded. Now.”

If the look on Megatron’s face was anything to go by, he was going to lose limbs if he refused. Besides, he didn’t want to have to watch any more of Prime and Megatron’s domestic squabbles.

The flippant thought was enough to keep his mind off the tank-turning disgust of the prospect of meeting the abomination again. He was in the medbay before he quite registered it, hearing Prime’s voice rumble warning at Megatron. 

Prime was too soft-sparked to send him off to do this unwillingly, wasn’t he? Knockout clung to that thought as he bent his helm forward and allowed Ratchet to upload both codes onto him. He put the antidote into the library of code he kept, and glanced back at the other doctor. 

Ratchet patted him on the shoulder, reset his vocalizer. “Well,” he said, then fell silent like he wasn’t sure what to say next.

Knockout shuddered. “Isn’t there someone _else_?” he said. 

“I tried to volunteer,” said Ratchet, sounding regretful. “Optimus pointed out why it wouldn’t work. Throughly.”

Knockout ex-vented heavily and put his helm in his hands.

Ratchet reset his vocalizer again. “Ah...your report indicates that they went for your medical port,” he said. “It’s likely they’ll do so again.”

Knockout shuddered again. As Starscream’s primary physician, the reports on the repairs done to his interface port had passed across his workstation on the way into Starscream’s medical files. “I can’t do this,” he said in sudden panic, not caring that Ratchet was an Autobot. Panic rose in his intakes, choking him. “I can’t.”

“I wish there was someone else,” said Ratchet. His hand tightened over Knockout’s shoulder. “But you know as well as I that sometimes there isn’t.”

Looking into Ratchet’s face, Knockout recalled abruptly his first battle as a field medic, the spark-deep refusal to leave the safety of the outcropping he’d sheltered behind, while his fellow medics searched the field and he willed himself to move, couldn’t. 

It had been a large black grounder, collapsing with a cry of pain nearby, and the sudden horrible realization that a mech was going to _die_ , die in front of him, if he didn’t move. 

At the time, Knockout had still been an idealist, proud of healing, fighting for a new world, for an end to starvation and slow deaths from curable diseases, and that had been enough to cross the field and tend the black grounder, Autobot and Decepticon fire raining down around them. The patient had lived. Knockout had found battlefields easier after that, elated by his success. 

A success that was no longer enough. Healing a patient _now_ usually meant that they’d just have another opportunity to get snuffed. He was no longer the bright-opticked idealist he’d been, and so his response to Ratchet’s words was a suspicious, annoyed glare.

Ratchet ex-vented heavily. “You’ll get revenge on the monsters for what they did to Breakdown,” he pointed out.

Knockout, despite himself, smiled. “Now there’s a sentiment I can get behind,” he said, and meant it. Familiar anger came to the surface, the anger at what MECH had done to Breakdown, the anger that had dogged him since Airachnid murdered his partner, making him reckless, new anger at what the humans had done to his mate’s body. 

It felt good.  Oh, he was still scared, but the anger was more important. He’d stood up to a slagging _Insecticon_ ; what was one foolish human?

He rose from the berth, saw the answering flare of optics as Ratchet encountered his field, and smirked.

The other medic removed his hand from Knockout’s shoulder. “For Starscream too,” he said. 

“For Starscream as well,” said Knockout, and this time, too, he meant it.

——

“You do not need to go,” said Prime firmly. “There are alternatives—less likely to be successful, but if you do not wish to…”

“I’ll go,” said Knockout. 

Both Prime and Megatron stared at him. It was quite clear that they had not expected that response. 

Knockout hadn’t expected it himself, if he were to be entirely honest. But Ratchet’s mention of Breakdown had changed things. 

The memory of Breakdown pinning him, laughing at him, still made his dorsal plating rise. But the Autobot medic had been correct; what MECH had done to his mate demanded revenge, and Knockout’s fear was now tempered with anger. He had a good chance; he had defeated the abomination before, after all. 

“Good,” said Prime, surprise vanishing behind a carefully neutral mask. 

“You will infiltrate MECH,” said Megatron, picking up on the earlier conversation as if several hours hadn’t elapsed. “You will allow the humans to upload the slave coding and pretend to be affected by it. You will then remove the coding on the captured Decepticons—”

“And return here as quickly as you can,” said Prime. “The more throughly you can disable MECH, the better, but it is of paramount importance to free the prisoners, and human authorities will frown on such an attack if it is easily attributed to Cybertronian activities.”

“In other words,” and this with a glare from Megatron to Prime that spelt yet another argument, “ _make it look like an accident._ ” 

“Understood,” said Knockout.

“Good,” said Prime again, and then added, “Thank you, Knockout.”

Knockout shrugged. “After what the humans did to Breakdown? This will be _satisfying._ ”

——

He regretted the words as soon as he was out of the groundbridge, of course. Hours and hours of driving—exactly the long drive he had wished for!—were horribly overshadowed by nervousness. His brief flare of determination faded, and he was tempted to turn around and head back for base. 

But now that he’d begun to think of it as a revenge for Breakdown, turning back seemed like a betrayal of his mate, and sheer stubborn pride kept him going. 

It was almost a relief when the blue truck appeared.

Knockout sped up, panic surging through his circuits. Of course he had to make the chase difficult, or it would be suspicious, but altogether too much of his reaction stemmed from simple fear. 

The abomination sped up as well.

His alt mode and the simple fact of Breakdown’s mass meant that he should have been able to outrun the abomination, but this thing accelerated far more smoothly than Breakdown ever had, and far faster. 

_What did they do to you?_ Knockout wondered, watching his speed creep up above 160 kilometers per hour—the blue truck finally, finally began to fall behind. 

He had to let it catch him, but if he slowed down, it would be obvious, even if he could master his revulsion long enough to do something so suicidal. There was a bridge just ahead, a long, straight stretch of road turning abruptly as it rounded a distant outcrop on the other side of the ravine. 

He could hear human engines above him, rapidly gaining. He accelerated again and then skidded into alt-mode as three Vehicons came around the corner and onto the bridge. He slammed into the middle one; the mech transformed and went down under his weight, the two of them sliding along the ground for some distance. Knockout tried to get back to his pedes. The Vehicon tripped him as he scrabbled for purchase and then its companions were upon him, seizing his arms. 

He kicked the first one, hard, and it doubled over around his arm with a yelp, but did not let go. Human helicopters above, one Eradicon flyer, and here came the abomination, smirking at him. Knockout made a little horrified noise low in his vocalizer and thrashed against the Vehicons holding him.

They swept his legs out from under him, and one of them said into his audial, “I’m sorry,” very quietly as they forced him to his knees. His arms were wrenched behind his back, a clawed hand bending his helm forward, baring his medical port. 

“Very good,” said the abomination’s voice above him. Knockout’s ventilations grew ragged. What if the honeytrap didn’t work? He struggled again, but the third Vehicon had joined them, and their combined strength was far too great. 

“You thought you stood a chance,” said the abomination’s voice above him. Knockout shuddered all over, as a blunt finger traced the edge of his medical port. “Cute.”

“Get off me!” he screamed, too disgusted for pride, and a wrench of his helm dislodged the finger.

“Hold him still,” said the abomination, and hands seized Knockout’s head and shoulders. Knockout tried to squirm away, venting in sobs. He was an idiot, why had he said yes to this, the human slag of a honeytrap code wasn’t going to be enough— _Please Primus no!_

A cable jammed clumsily into his medical port, a stab of pain that went right up the spinal strut into the processor, jarring the dorsal sensor ganglia, and Knockout yelped. 

Something downloaded. 

And then nothing happened. 

The medical cable withdrew. Knockout stayed where he was, shaking. The Vehicons released him, and he braced himself against the ground before he could fall over, and shook. 

_It worked._

_Frag me, the scientists did something useful for once!_

_It worked!_

He didn’t allow himself a smile, didn’t look up, not trusting himself to keep the triumph out of his optics. 

“Welcome to MECH, Doctor,” the abomination was saying. “Your services are required.”

_Oh_ , thought Knockout,  _you have_ no _idea._

——

“I thought I told you to stay the frag away from me,” said Starscream, glaring at the figure silhouetted in the doorway. 

Megatron raised an optic ridge. 

Starscream returned his attention to his hands, curled in his lap. “What do you want?”

Megatron shrugged. Starscream looked up at him again. He regarded Starscream with an evaluating light in his optics. Then he uttered a brief phrase in Vosian. 

In Praxus, it would have been a compliment. In Iacon, it would have been considered flattering, if rather provincial. 

In Vos, however, it was an insult worth spilling energon over.

Starscream’s optics flared, and he  came to his pedes with a snarl. “ _What_ did you say?”

Megatron, grinning, repeated it.

Starscream took a step toward him, long dormant protocols coming to life, disused since before the war, overriding his fear of Megatron, the knowledge that attacking him was an idiotic idea. “You _will_ retract that!”

Megatron looked thoughtful, and pronounced another choice phrase. 

The insult to his progenitors was too much. Starscream lunged for him, spitting static. Megatron sidestepped easily, then, lapsing back into simple Cybertronian, “Well? Is a Prince of Vos going to let such an insult pass so simply?”

The reference to his old rank made Starscream, if anything, angrier, and he charged after Megatron. Who turned and _ran_ , laughing like Pit.

Starscream, processor clouded by rage and layers of Vosian honor protocols, didn’t stop to think about how utterly uncharacteristic Megatron’s behavior was. Rather, his entire attention focused down on the correct dueling etiquette; insult had been offered and he would retaliate. He charged, shrieking challenge, and Megatron dove into the groundbridge ahead of him. 

They came out into heat and light and Megatron sprang upwards, transforming. Starscream followed him. He would show this uncouth, uneducated gladiator what it was to offend Vos. 

He overtook the sparkling-of-a-grounder easily enough, corkscrewed around him in deliberate insult. The oaf turned over in what was far too clumsy to be a return of the sentiment, and Starscream laughed at him and said as much. 

Megatron’s response was that Starscream’s progenitors must have had carnal relations with a trash compactor. Starscream shrieked, flipped up above him and transformed to crash down clawing at his back. Megatron went end over end, and he sprang free, flipping himself back into alt, spun and headed Megatron off. 

Megatron went into a dive. Starscream followed, darting in as close as he dared, so that Megatron could hear his speculations on his personal habits, those of his progenitors, and his ancestors. 

Megatron paid him no mind, leveling out scant meters above the ground, and Starscream, just to prove that he could, went a full two meters lower before pulling up, dogging Megatron closely through the twisting canyons. 

“Your Carrier fragged a Quintesson!” he screamed, gleefully. “Is that why you’ve never sparked? Afraid they’ll have tentacles?”

Megatron growled and stopped. Starscream went into root mode, pushed off of him, and went into alt again as soon as he was clear, arcing up with Megatron just behind him. He lifted free of the canyon and went skimming along the desert above.

Something slammed into him, claws grasping, and he transformed again, kicked off and free, and turned over so that when they hit the ground, it was with him on top. 

They skidded, but Megatron was on the bottom and Starscream crowed his elation. He’d won. He’d brought his opponent to ground. 

They came to a halt, ventilating hard, and Megatron pushed him off easily. 

“Well, Starscream?” he said. “Is your honor satisfied?”

“Quite,” said Starscream, ventilating hard. The honor protocols had gone dormant again with the conclusion of the duel, and he looked around with slow horror. Both of them were covered in red grit and he had just attacked Megatron, dueled Megatron and he _wasn’t dead_. 

Which meant the slag-cabled Pit progeny had _planned_ this all. 

Megatron was grinning. Megatron looked entirely too pleased with himself for someone who had lost. 

Starscream’s wings drooped. The frag was he playing at?

Megatron, ignoring his confusion, stood. “Good. I am also pleased that my Air Commander’s skill has not suffered over his exile.”

_Oh._ Pleasure rose in Starscream’s spark and field, surprise as well. 

Megatron wanted him back. 

He shouldn’t be _this_ pleased about it. Starscream collected himself, hid the shock, and smirked. “I assure you, that was only a _fraction_ of my ability.”

“Oh really?” Megatron grinned. “It’s ten klicks back to the groundbridge. _Prove it._ ”

And they were off again. With his processor clear of rage, Starscream found that there was no hesitation to his transformation now, no creeping dread. The pleasure of flight blotted away the past.

After all, he was Air Commander of the Decepticons, and he was _better_ at this slag than even _Megatron_. 


	11. Chapter 11

Lightwing had slipped into stasis several days ago, and showed no sign of coming out of it. He was strangely silent, ventilators shut down—unnecessary for the very few systems still active, a very quiet hum. By placing a hand over his chestplates, Tailspin could feel the slow pulse of his spark, terrifyingly weak. 

And growing weaker.

Tailspin bowed his helm, threaded his fingers through Lightwing’s, and waited. The others were off on a mission. He had argued that at least one of them should remain behind to monitor Lightwing at all times, and to his surprise, Silas had agreed. 

The others had also agreed with him that they would try to capture a medic, even if they weren’t ordered to do so. The thought of losing Lightwing was unbearable to them, though for far different reasons than it was to Tailspin. If Lightwing died, it meant that any of them could. 

Tailspin clung to Lightwing’s hand as if by sheer force of will he could keep the other mech alive. He had failed. He’d been determined to keep his comrades alive—slag it, he’d even begun thinking of them as his command—and he had failed. Lightwing, the one thing that had made this nightmare bearable, was dying and there was nothing he could do. There was nothing he could have done. Lightwing was going to die, and he was going to die a slave. 

Tailspin did not keen. He wanted to, but the humans were around and he did not dare make such a demonstration in front of them. 

Lightwing was dying, and he could not even mourn him. 

_I love you_ , he sent to Lightwing’s comm, knowing it was inactive, but needing to say something, anything. _Please don’t leave me. I can’t do this without you._

The sound of pedes jerked him out of his reverie, and he looked up, counting helms. They were all there. And they had someone with them.

The sight of the red plating stopped the words in his vocalizer and he just stared. For several moments, he had no words, just shocked, stunned relief.

Longstanding protocols came to his rescue. He stood. “Knockout--sir—?”  
Knockout gave him a flat look, all expression contained. Tailspin’s spark sank. 

“I’m sorry,” he said quietly.

Knockout said nothing. It was the quietest he’d ever seen the doctor. Tailspin reset his vocalizer, and, gesturing to Lightwing’s still form, “Can you do anything for him?”

Knockout came over and knelt next to Lightwing. “I need an energon line, now,” he said, producing a medical kit from his subspace. “Five centimeter diameter.”

Tailspin selected the required line, watched Knockout make a corresponding incision in Lightwing’s chassis. It didn’t leak. Knockout said something profane. “Energon,” he said, holding out a hand, and Tailspin handed him a cube of medical grade energon. 

Knockout wordlessly hooked it to the line, handed it back. “Hold this up so it drains appropriately,” he said. “We’ll give him another once it’s drained.” He reached for the kit, frowned, then ripped open a packet of what looked like silvery powder and dumped it in. “Inactive nanites,” he explained. “Should calibrate themselves to his systems once they enter his lines.”

The cube drained fast, and they replaced it with another, setting it on a shipping crate to keep it at the correct height. Knockout frowned, pressing a hand against Lightwing’s spark chamber. “Spark pulse is weak,” he said. “Hand me the shock prod.”

Tailspin hesitated.

“Hand me the shock prod,” repeated Knockout, sounding annoyed. Tailspin complied. 

“Are you sure—”

“Are you a medic? Didn’t think so,” said Knockout, fiddling with the prod. “Ah. There. Back to factory settings.” He touched it to Lightwing’s chest.

Lightwing jerked. Knockout removed the prod and replaced it with a hand. “Good,” he said. 

“What did you do?”

“A bit of extra energy to increase spark activity. He should be onlining within the next few hours,” said Knockout, and tucked kit and prod into his subspace again. He extended a cable from his wrist. 

Tailspin put a defensive hand on Lightwing’s shoulder. “What are you doing with that?”

“I want a scan of his coding,” said Knockout. “And yours too. No knowing what the slagging human computers might have been carrying.”

Tailspin glared at him, then retreated. Cautiously. 

It only took a few moments. Then Knockout withdrew, and looked at Tailspin. 

“I’m fine,” he said. 

“No, you’re not,” said Knockout. He glared a moment, then ex-vented heavily. “I _know_ it’ll bring up unpleasant memories,” he said. “It’s medically necessary. And,” and he _winked_ , Tailspin couldn’t believe his optics, “you won’t regret it.”

It sounded like a proposition. But… 

Something was off. 

Knockout had dropped the mask of neutrality. There was an edgy but cheerful determination in his field. It wasn’t right for a newly coded mech. A newly coded mech shouldn’t be so eager to scan coding. 

Tailspin met Knockout’s optics, hope rising in his spark, and bowed his helm.

The cable socketed in gently, and then something downloaded. 

He couldn't move. Memory, sanity flickered, and Tailspin repressed a cry and wobbled. Knockout steadied him, and the tugging sensation was gone as quickly as it had arrived.

“Better?” said Knockout.

Tailspin did a coding scan. And then another, not believing what he’d just found. He looked back at Knockout, spark beating wildly, joy and hope rushing through him. Knockout _grinned._

_Thank the Autobots,_ he said over the comms. _Where are the others?_

Tailspin called them, not bothering to hide the joy. 

——

The door slid open so fast that it almost flew off its track, and Optimus looked up from his private workstation at Megatron with some surprise. 

“We need to talk, Prime,” said Megatron. 

Optimus gave him a long, guarded look. “Yes,” he said. “I believe we do.”

The door closed. 

“You will not undermine my authority like that again,” said Megatron, hands clenching, and Optimus turned fully to face him.

“I would prefer not to,” he said. “But you cannot expect me to remain silent when you make a tactically unsound decision, or one which is morally unjustifiable.”

“You thought my decision to dispatch Knockout was tactically unsound?”

“The mission should only have been delegated to a volunteer,” said Optimus. “The consequences of failure were so high that only a volunteer fully aware of them would be qualified to undertake the expedition.”

“Unlike you, I command an army, Prime,” said Megatron. “While it might be morally comfortable for you to run your little group with everyone deciding which missions they do and don’t desire to take, I have no such luxury. Knockout was the _only_ choice for the mission, and he _did_ volunteer.”

Optimus’s mouth tightened. “Do not mistake my unwillingness to make moral compromises for weakness, Megatron. Knockout was not the only choice for the mission.”

Megatron’s optics blazed, and he crossed the room in two swift strides, seizing Optimus’s shoulders. Optimus remained very still, repressed the brief flare of alarm at being abruptly restrained, and looked up into Megatron’s face, keeping his field calm. 

“Yes,” snarled Megatron, “And the alternative was _you_ , which I _will not_ allow!”

“We have already had this discussion, Megatron,” said Optimus, and allowed a touch of his own anger into his voice. “You _will not_ give me orders. You will not dictate which missions I do or do not participate in. I am perfectly competent to judge my own safety, and any attempt you make to control my actions will not be appreciated.” 

Megatron stared at him. “You are my Prime,” he said. “Prime and Lord Protector—you agreed to it, did you not?”

“Not officially,” said Optimus, “and if I do, it will be a relationship of equals. You will not control my movements or decisions, regardless of your opinions on my safety. Neither shall I yours.”

There was a pause. Megatron released him. 

Optimus took a step back. 

“You are the most stubborn—”

“I must be,” said Optimus. “The alternative would end badly for all those who depend on me.”

Megatron snorted. “Always the responsible one.”

Optimus elected to ignore that. “We have spent so much time concentrating on the technicalities of the negotiations and the treaty that we have neglected an equally important matter.”

“Which would be?”

“The nature of our relationship,” said Optimus. “Which, given its role in our decision to begin negotiations, and the traditional relationship between Prime and Lord Protector—should we decide to go through with that structure in the interim government—should not be ignored.”

Megatron ex-vented, irritation flashing through his field. “Elaborate.”

“Arguments like this one will likely increase in frequency and intensity if we do not establish parameters for our relationship,” said Optimus. “Such an outcome might destabilize the peace process. Additionally, there are further measures that we may need to take to make our relationship formally recognized, sparkbonding being the most significant of them. However, we still have enough unresolved matters that a sparkbond at this point in time is impossible. Therefore, these matters must be resolved satisfactorily as soon as possible.”

Megatron’s expression was highly satisfying. 

“Sparkbonding,” he said after a very long time. “You’re proposing a sparkbond?”

“Only if we can resolve—”

“Slag it, Prime, we _will_ resolve those matters—when the _Pit_ did _sparkbonding_ come into it?”

“It is only the next logical step of our relationship, involved as it is with the peace process and the future of Cybertron—”

“I don’t _care_ about the politics of the matter!” snapped Megatron. “Do you _want_ a bond, Optimus? You might as well _say_ so if you do, not excuse yourself with politics!” He huffed again, looked away. “Next you’ll say you’ll want us to _spark_ to cement the peace.”

Optimus’s field colored very faintly with embarrassment. “In point of fact—”

Megatron raised a hand. “Apparently, we have much to discuss. Let us resolve the other matters first.” There was a pause, and he added, “And I thought you were being difficult about the _mining rights_ ,” in a resentful rumble, which Optimus pretended not to hear.


	12. Chapter 12

The Decepticons tried to hide their celebratory mood, but as the humans were also feeling cheerful at their new ‘acquisition’, Tailspin decided that any slips they made might go unnoticed. 

He was sitting between Knockout and a newly revived Lightwing, who wasn’t quite ready to sit up on his own yet and instead had settled for leaning against his side, visor dimmed, engines rumbling contentedly, stealing sips from Tailspin’s energon. Tailspin was having rather more fun than he wanted to admit fueling Lightwing under the guise of caring for him, and Lightwing seemed pleased enough with it. 

The other Decepticons crowded around as well, eager for news of the ship, the other officers, who was fragging whom, what the Pit was going on with Prime and Lord Megatron anyway. Knockout obliged with zeal, relishing the sounds of shock when he related the most recent argument, the various bits of evidence that the negotiations were not exactly professional. 

Tailspin steadied the cube so Lightwing could drink, and looked over the assembled Decepticons with great satisfaction. The difference was clearly visible. Wings were up, in the case of the Eradicons, and there was a new way they held themselves, plating frilled out, fields flickering contentment, satisfaction, triumph. They still needed to figure out how exactly to leave, but they were free and that was such a triumph that even Tailspin couldn’t bring himself to worry about the exact logistics of their escape. 

At least, until one of the other humans turned up. “Hey,” he said, and the assembled mechs looked down at him. “You with the paintjob. Silas wants to see you.”

There was a pause. Knockout looked down at him with distaste. 

“I meant you,” said the human. 

“Oh,” said Knockout and rose. There was an uneasy shift of frames. 

_Be careful,_ Tailspin commed him, and Knockout’s field went exasperated. 

_I’ll be fine_ , he said, and followed the human.

Unease rose in Tailspin’s spark. Silas had never summoned anyone but him, and never at such an hour. He didn’t like it. 

He looked around at the others, who looked similarly nervous. 

_I think it’s time we make a move_ , sent Contrail. Tailspin looked at Lightwing, and nodded. It would have been ideal if they could have waited until Lightwing was a little stronger, but they no longer had that luxury.

——

Knockout entered the hangar with the full intention of killing the monster waiting for him there. It only rose when the humans closed its doors behind him, leaving him alone with the abomination wearing Breakdown’s body.

It turned around, smirking. 

“Well?” it said, “Report. The jet. How is it doing?”

“You mean my patient?” said Knockout. “He’s well on his way to a full recovery. The severity of his condition was only due to medical neglect.”

“Good,” said the abomination, and Knockout took a step forward, some lie about his desire for some difficult-to-obtain medical supply on his glossa. 

“Stay still,” said Silas.

Knockout obeyed. 

Silas moved forward and took Knockout’s jaw in his hand. Knockout flinched at the brutal, assured, _alien_ intimacy of the gesture. Warm ex-vents washed over his face, Breakdown’s scent mixed with decaying organic matter. 

“You and this body used to be lovers, didn’t you?”

He wanted to lie to spite Silas, but Silas already knew and he’d been ordered to tell the truth. “Yes sir.”

“I should have guessed,” said Silas. “You are such an effeminate little thing, after all.”

The insult was too alien to understand. No stigma surrounding same-frame pairings on Cybertron. Knockout stood like a stone, listening to human jibes about sexual preference, and did not care. It would have been funny, if not for the intent gaze the abomination bent on him. 

His lack of reaction frustrated Silas, he could tell, and that was enough to resist the urge to start laughing at the ridiculous human’s attempts to humiliate him. 

Finally, Silas pushed Breakdown’s face into his and said, still level-voiced, “You’re a medic, right? You must find alternative uses for all those tools.” He paused and Knockout realized he was expected to respond. If he said no, Silas would think he was lying, and be suspicious. 

“Yes,” he said.

Breakdown’s face twisted into a vicious smile. “No wonder. Breakdown did seem to enjoy what we did to him.”

Rage roared up in Knockout’s spark, rage that this _human_ would ever equate what he had done to Breakdown with what Knockout had shared with his mate. Knockout was moving before he thought, dragging out his prod.

And Silas was on top of him, pinning him, slammed his helm hard into the floor again and again. He struggled to rise, couldn’t with his arms pinned under Silas’s knees. Terror swamped his processor, and he thrashed, shrieking insults. 

“I’ll give you credit,” said Silas. “It took more than I expected to get you riled up. Interesting that machines can get so attached to each other.”

“Get off me!”

“Don’t worry, we’ll find out what went wrong with you,” said Silas, and ran a possessive hand across his shoulders. Knockout gasped a ventilation, another surge of terror whiting out his processor. Silas’s voice went nasty. “And, perhaps, if it was intentional.”

“How did you know?” Knockout whispered into the ground. 

“You didn’t break right,” said Silas into his audial. “Certainly you acted cowed enough, but there was no simmering resentment. You don’t flinch when I enter the room. Even Optimus Prime flinched.”

A shudder ran through his frame. 

“You had better hope we can install the code on you,” purred Breakdown’s voice. “If not--well, Johnson _has_ been requesting another specimen for dissection.”

“No, please—” Knockout’s voice shrilled, and an EM pulse shocked through his systems. 

——

“I know you’re up to something,” said Silas’s voice. Tailspin ventilated in surprise, stood quickly to greet Silas, an instinctive gesture. 

“Sir?” he said. 

“I know you’re up to something,” Silas repeated, and folded his arms. “Speak.”

“I don’t understand, sir,” said Tailspin, panicking, and Silas moved forward, too fast to stop, and seized Lightwing from the berth, hauled him upright against his frame. 

“You understood me the first time,” he said, and his hand closed around Lightwing’s throat. Lightwing tried to push him away, claws scraping futilely at his chestplate. Tailspin took a step forward, but Silas tightened his grip on Lightwing. 

Lightwing’s little sound of pain stopped Tailspin dead. 

“That medic did something,” said Silas. “We’ll find out what. Johnson’s working on him now. So, anything you want to get off your tin chests?”

Tailspin stared at Lightwing, venting hard. 

“I don’t have all night,” said Silas, and slammed Lightwing into the ground, almost casually, keeping him there with a pede as the flyer writhed at the pressure on his half-healed wing. “Talk!”

“I…” said Tailspin, and Silas’s attention focused on him. 

“I know you like him,” the human said, very quietly, and put more pressure on Lightwing’s chest. Lightwing struggled, little binary beeps escaping him, pain whiting out his speech centers. “Come on, ‘Tailspin’, you don’t have the balls to watch me dismantle your pretty little lover boy.”

Tailspin’s hands clenched.

And one of Lightwing’s flailing hands shot up and jammed clawed fingers into the soft unarmored bit between Breakdown’s pede and leg. The hand clenched, twisted, and Silas screamed, throwing himself backward.

Tailspin lunged, screaming profanities at the top of his vocalizer, blaster out, going for Silas’s spark. 

Contrail got there first, got in close, and ducked out of the way of Silas’s hammer, occupied him. Tailspin reached Silas, landed a heavy blow across his arms, hearing the others arrive.

“Sir?” called Contrail, “Permission to scrap this slagger?”

Silas took a step back from them and ran up against a wall. 

“Go ahead,” said Tailspin. 

Silas went down under the press of bodies. His curses became screams, screams static. Tailspin was not aware of anything but the vicious desire to rip, tear, _hurt_ , and did not stop until there was nothing to destroy before him.

What was left afterward was not recognizable as either human or Cybertronian. Organic fluids mixed with energon; struts and bone gleamed in the muck, one blending into the other. Vicious satisfaction shaded the fields around him, and Tailspin stepped back, spangled in fluids up to the shoulder, faceplates splattered, and said, “He’s dead.”

“Yeah,” said Contrail. “Can’t get much deader.” He shook a bit of clinging matter off his claws and looked at Tailspin. 

“Come on,” said Tailspin. “We still need to rescue the Doc.” He went to Lightwing, who was still curled around himself, panting, and helped him to his pedes. “Besides, there’s a base that needs destroying.”


	13. Chapter 13

The signal came in less than a day after Knockout had left. Optimus and Megatron went immediately to the meeting coordinates, Optimus bringing Ratchet in case of wounded, Megatron bringing a squad of Vehicons in case it was a trap. 

The sound of engines was already loud by the time they stepped out of the groundbridge, and Optimus could see the little cavalade approaching. Two flyers, one supporting the other. A mass of Vehicons, impossible to tell the number. And one bright red car in the middle, swerving badly but present.

He let out a heavy ex-vent, counting again as they came closer, and finding all seven Decepticons present. They had gotten them all back. He had not dared hope for such a thing. 

Ratchet, next to him, frowned and opened a comm line. “Arcee, Bumblebee,” he said, “prepare sickbay.” At Optimus’s questioning glance, he explained, “Yes, they’re all capable of traveling, but I don’t like the way Knockout’s wobbling. Miscalibrated or damaged gyroscopic sensor—it implies processor damage. In fact, I want to examine _all_ of them.”

“I defer to your judgement, old friend,” said Optimus, and the little group came to a halt and transformed. Now he agreed with Ratchet about Knockout; sloppy welds ran over his helm and shoulders, and his optics were dim. It was one of the Vehicons who stepped forward. 

“Report,” said Megatron.

“Silas is dead, my lord,” said the Vehicon, a mech, sounding if he didn’t quite believe his own words. “MECH’s base is destroyed. Lightwing and Knockout are our only casualties.” He nodded at the flyer.

“Are you sure?” said Optimus.

“I checked what was left of the body myself,” said Knockout quietly. “Nothing could have survived that. Not unless they learn how to reconstruct such things from an atomic level—and what was left was mostly, shall we say, dramatically oxidized.”

“Good,” said Megatron. 

“Enough,” said Ratchet. “I want the lot of you in sickbay _now._ You can talk to them later, Megatron, but not until they’ve all been throughly examined.”

Knockout nodded jerkily. “I can help with that,” he said.

“No you won’t,” said Ratchet. “You will be on a berth, recharging. _After_ I see to that processor damage.”

Knockout looked away and shuddered. “Fine,” he said, very quietly.

Ratchet put out a hand to steady him as he swayed. “Come on,” he said, rather more gently. “Arcee, groundbridge.”

When the others had gone through the bridge, Optimus gave Megatron a hard look. “Megatron, you understood my reservations about sending Knockout—”

“He returned, did he not?” said Megatron. “And your medic is competent, is he not? Then there is nothing to be concerned about.”

Optimus let out a heavy ventilation. “I suppose,” he said.

“Optimus.” Megatron put a hand on his shoulder. “Silas is dead. We have _won_.”

“But at what price?” said Optimus, and turned and entered the groundbridge.

——

The repairs to Knockout’s processor were far less involved than Ratchet had dreaded, and the field repairs seemed stable enough. The rest of the damage…

Ratchet ex-vented heavily and resigned himself with the knowledge that there were some ailments that the modern medicine he was trained in wasn’t sufficient to address, not without the assistance of, say, Rung. Optimus had seemed to do well enough in his recovery, though Ratchet wondered how much this new closeness with Megatron had to do with it, and slagged if he knew whether it was beneficial or not.

Starscream seemed to have reached some sort of plateau again, seemed less liable to flinch and cringe, but Ratchet hardly thought it a sure indication of recovery. Starscream was all too good at hiding the extent of such things. Ratchet could not entirely blame him for it. That long working for Megatron would fry anyone’s sense of trust.

Which of course brought him right back to Optimus and his current behavior. Megatron seemed to be determined to play nicely, but even with MECH’s foul crimes as a contrast, Ratchet did not trust him. He had repaired too many of his victims.

Including Optimus.

Ratchet wanted peace. He wanted peace in spark-deep ways he didn’t have words to express. He didn’t want to have to patch up one single set more of wounds from blaster-fire. There were Vehicons in his med-bay now and he was happy to have them looking to him with as much trust as they would their own medic, because it meant he was doing what he was supposed to. He was, after all, in every line of his code, a healer.

But he did not want it at the price of Optimus’s spark and frame. He did not want it at the price of his Prime at Megatron’s mercy, which Optimus was, and seemed unable to see. He seemed capable enough of handling Megatron so far, but Ratchet had known the pair of them when Optimus  was Orion and Megatron Megatronus and remembered how easily Orion had followed where Megatronus led, how devastated he was at Megatronus’s abandonment. Optimus, like Orion, loved far too easily, and that one fact was what placed the very spark of Optimus Prime in Megatron’s clawed hand.

Optimus would listen if he expressed concern, he knew that. Optimus would listen, and try still harder to safeguard Autobot interests in the negotiations, and would never take care of his own interests, would never try to guard himself against treachery. And if Ratchet went as far as to voice his fears about Optimus’s well being, Optimus would decide it was a worthwhile sacrifice to end the war that he, in large part, blamed himself for. 

And so Ratchet hid his worry by checking his patients again and haranguing the ones who had let Knockout go off with Starscream while he wasn’t paying attention, and then to reread what few papers he possessed dealing with psychological reactions to trauma, and grumble about how no one bot seemed capable of presenting clinically typical symptoms.

——

Starscream and Knockout sat on top of the Autobot base and watched the sun set in alien streaks of dark oranges and golds. Starscream drew his knees up and put his chin on them. 

“It’s difficult to believe he’s dead,” said Starscream after a long time. 

Knockout nodded. “If it’s any comfort, he’d have to be rebuilt from a molecular level if the humans decided to bring him back. I’m fairly certain they’re not capable of it.”

Starscream ex-vented. “I’m sure of that,” he said. “I still wanted to kill him.”

“Well, in a way you did. You invented the honeytrap, after all. It made this possible.”

Pause. 

“You’re being far too kind, Knockout. Are you sure you’re feeling well?”

“No,” said Knockout, quietly. “The abomination had colonized Breakdown.”

“It’s dead,” said Starscream. “If it helps at all.”

“It _doesn’t_ ,” said Knockout, and there was a snarl of agonized rage in it. “It _doesn’t_ , not at all! I already lost Breakdown _once_.”

Starscream reached out very tentatively. Knockout flinched away. “You haven’t been sparkbonded,” he said, optics unfocused, and hunched himself small. “You don’t get used to it. You never get used to it. There’s supposed to be someone _there_. And there’s nothing and there never will be again.” He vented a harsh sob, and covered his face with his hands. “I thought it was him. Even though I felt nothing from him, I thought—I _hoped_ it was him. And now I can’t even remember him without remembering that...that abomination, that monster, that _thing_ looking at me—” 

His voice broke, and he rocked back, plating clamped tight, shivers running through him. “Wasn’t it enough?” he whispered, not addressing Starscream. “Wasn’t it enough to take my mate from me? Why did you take his memory, too?”

_It will get better_ , Starscream wanted to say, but remembered how little that meant to him when Optimus said it. Instead, he drew his legs up onto the cliff and let his field flare open in comfort and welcome. Knockout did not respond for a long while, then slowly turned his helm and looked at Starscream. 

Starscream gave him a pained little smile. “You need not be alone,” he said, the words strange on his glossa, and Knockout, after a long hesitation, returned the smile, and reached for him.

——

“Optimus,” said Megatron that evening, as Optimus pored over yet another draft of the agreement over mining rights. “You have been consistently oblique of late.”

“About what, Megatron?” said Optimus, his attention on the datapad in his hands. 

“The issue of the sparkbond,” said Megatron.

“I see,” said Optimus, and flicked the screen of the datapad to make an annotation. 

Megatron made a frustrated noise. “Are we to continue dancing around the issue?”

“I cannot see what issue there is to ‘dance around’,” said Optimus. “It is the next reasonable political measure—”

“Slag it, Optimus! To Pit with the political measures!” Megatron’s hand closed over the datapad. “Do you want a sparkbond or don’t you?”

“As I have previously stated—”

“What you have previously stated concerns _Cybertron_ , not you. I’m not asking whether you think one is convenient. I’m asking whether _you_ want to bond with _me._ Not whether it would be the best thing for our species. Not whether it would ensure a favorable outcome of the treaty—” Megatron cut himself off with a disgusted snarl, as Optimus simply looked at him steadily. His voice went low and dangerous. “At least tell me that all of this,” and he touched Optimus’s armguard, “has not been an elaborate political ruse on your part.”

“It has not,” said Optimus, voice abruptly rough. “But I have been hard pressed to ensure that my purely selfish desires do not color my political decisions. I cannot afford that. We have been at war for far too long—”

“Do you not think that I face the same difficulty, Optimus? Not so long ago, you came to me looking for solace from a vicious crime. Not so long ago you challenged me to overcome the demons we together had wrought. And both times I agreed—for that was what it seemed you wanted with all your spark, when I too, desired it—and now you propose we bare our sparks to each other and you make it sound necessary, as if you had no wish to do so.”

 “I wish to,” said Optimus. “I should never propose it otherwise. But I fear the consequences should something go wrong.”

“You mean, should I betray you?” Megatron leaned in. “Or should you betray me, as you did before? Remember, Optimus, that I too, am taking a great risk when I say that I want such a bond with you. You are the only mech in this universe that is my equal. You were my greatest ally; I wish it so again and to have it I _will_ bond to you, as we should have before this war was begun—if this is truly what you want.”

Optimus’s optics flared bright. “I want this,” he said, low and fierce, and pressed his helm to Megatron’s. “With all of my spark, I want this.”

“Then in this, we are agreed,” said Megatron, and ran wondering fingers over the shapes of Optimus’s helm. 

Soon after, the little bare room filled with the flickering blue of sparklight.


	14. Chapter 14

It was not a traditional place to conduct an interview affecting matters of national security, but they’d sealed off this hallway of the hospital and there was no chance of being overheard. General Bryce nodded to the guard at the door and stepped inside.

The man in the bed smiled weakly at him from under his bandages—little skinny guy, looked like he should still be in high school. “Thank you for coming to see me, sir.”

“You’re in a lot of trouble, son,” said General Bryce. 

“Yes sir, I am,” said the man. “But I think I’d prefer you to the robots, sir.”

“So you’ve said.” General Bryce stopped at the end of the bed. “We’re going to offer you a deal, Mister Johnson. During your time as a member of the terrorist organization known as MECH, you developed something commonly known as ‘slave coding’, did you not?”

“Yes sir. Project Gladiator, sir.”

“If you assist the United States with its further development, we are prepared to offer you a full pardon,” said Bryce. “And, if necessary, asylum from Cybertronian prosecution.”

Johnson’s grin got bigger. “I’d be glad to, sir.”


End file.
